SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS, 


BY  JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


BOSTON : 

THE  PILOT  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 
1878. 


COPYRIGHT,  187S, 

BY  JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


It-ECTBOTTMD  1NT>  PKINT«1>  BT 

Dum,CASHHAN  &  Co.,  27  BOYLSTON  ST.,  BOSTON. 


TO 

MY  DEAR  WIFE, 

WHOSE   RARB   AND   LOVING  JUDGMENT   HAS   BEEN   A  STANDARD 
I   HAVE  TRIED  TO   REACH, 

I    DEDICATE    THIS    BOOK. 


CONTENTS. 


PAG«. 

THE  RAINBOW'S  TREASURE i 

AT  BEST 3 

MACARIUS  THE  MONK 4 

THE  TRIAL  OF  THE  GODS 7 

THE  SHADOW n 

THE  VALUE  OF  GOLD   .              12 

PEACE  AND  PAIN 14 

A  SEED 15 

CHUNDER  ALI'S  WIFE 16 

A  Kiss 19 

BONE  AND  SINEW  AND  BRAIN 20 

TO-DAY 23 

MY  NATIVE  LAND 25 

THERE  is  BLOOD  ON  THE  EARTH 27 

THE  RIDE  OF  COLLINS  GRAVES  . 29 

STAR-GAZING 33 

DOLORES 37 

LOVE,  AND  BE  WISE 39 

RESURGITE! — JUNE,  1877 41 

RULES  OF  THE  ROAD 44 

FOREVER 46 

THE  LOVING  CUP  OF  THE  PAPYRUS 48 

THE  TREASURE  OF  ABRAM 51 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  NARWHALE  .             58 

DYING  IN  HARNESS .       .  67 

GOLU 70 

UNDER  THE  RIVER 72 

HIDDEN  SINS 73 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PACK. 

UNSPOKEN  WORDS 75 

THE  POISON  FLOWER 77 

MY  MOTHER'S  MEMORY 79 

THE  OLD  SCHOOL  CLOCK 80 

MARY 83 

LEGEND  OF  THE  BLESSED  VIRGIN 85 

THE  Loss  OF  THE  EMIGRANTS  .       .       .       .       .       .       .88 

WITHERED  SNOWDROPS 91 

WAIL  OF  Two  CITIES 94 

THE  FISHERMEN  OF  WEXFORD 97 

THE  FEAST  OF  THE  GAEL 104 

AT  FREDERICKSBURG. — DEC.  13,  1862 109 

THE  PRIESTS  OF  IRELAND 116 

RELEASED — JANUARY,  1878 123 

THE  PATRIOT'S  GRAVE 127 

JOHN  MITCHEL 135 

A  NATION'S  TEST 138 

THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN 149 

UNCLE  NED'S  TALES  — 

An  Old  Dragoon's  Story 161 

How  the  Flag  was  Saved 180 

HAUNTED  BY  TIGERS 198 

WESTERN  AUSTRALIA 215 

THE  DUKITE  SNAKE 218 

THE  MONSTER  DIAMOND 228 

THE  Doc  GUARD 237 

THE  AMBER  WHALE 247 


THE  KING  OF  THE  VASSE 


271 


SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 


SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 


THE  RAINBOW'S  TREASURE. 

~\T  7HERE  the  foot  of  the  rainbow  meets  the 
*        field, 

And  the  grass  resplendent  glows, 
The  earth  will  a  precious  treasure  yield, 

So  the  olden  story  goes. 
In  a  crystal  cup  are  the  diamonds  piled 

For  him  who  can  swiftly  chase 
Over  torrent  and  desert  and  precipice  wild, 

To  the  rainbow's  wandering  base. 

i 
There  were  two  in  the  field  at  work,  one  day, 

Two  brothers,  who  blithely  sung, 
When  across  their  valley's  deep-winding  way 

The  glorious  arch  was  flung  ! 


2        SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

And  one  saw  naught  but  a  sign  of  rain, 
And  feared  for  his  sheaves  unbound  ; 

And  one  is  away,  over  mountain  and  plain, 
Till  the  mystical  treasure  is  found ! 

Thorough  forest  and  stream,  in  a  blissful  dream, 

The  rainbow  lured  him  on ; 
With  a  siren's  guile  it  loitered  awhile, 

Then  leagues  away  was  gone. 
Over  brake  and  brier  he  followed  fleet ; 

The  people  scoffed  as  he  passed ; 
But  in  thirst  and  heat,  and  with  wounded  feet, 

He  nears  the  prize  at  last. 

It  is  closer  and  closer  —  he  wins  the  race  — 

One  strain  for  the  goal  in  sight : 
Its  radiance  falls  on  his  yearning  face  — 

The  blended  colors  unite  ! 
He  laves  his  brow  in  the  iris  beam  — 

He  reaches Ah  woe  !  the  sound 

From  the  misty  gulf  where  he  ends  his  dream, 

And  the  crystal  cup  is  found  1 


AT    BEST. 

"Tis  the  old,  old  story  :  one  man  will  read 

His  lesson  of  toil  in  the  sky ; 
While  another  is  blind  to  the  present  need, 

But  sees  with  the  spirit's  eye. 
You  may  grind  their  souls  in  the  self-same  mill, 

You  may  bind  them,  heart  and  brow ; 
But  the  poet  will  follow  the  rainbow  still, 

And  his  brother  will  follow  the  plough. 


AT  BEST. 

/"T'VHE  faithful  helm  commands  the  keel, 
From  port  to  port  fair  breezes  blow ; 
But  the  ship  must  sail  the  convex  sea, 
Nor  may  she  straighter  go. 

So,  man  to  man  ;  in  fair  accord, 

On  thought  and  will,  the  winds  may  wait ; 
But  the  world  will  bend  the  passing  word, 

Though  its  shortest  course  be  straight. 


SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

From  soul  to  soul  the  shortest  line 

At  best  will  bended  be  : 
The  ship  that  holds  the  straightest  course 

Still  sails  the  convex  sea. 


MACARIUS  THE  MONK. 

TN  the  old  days,  while  yet  the  Church  was 

young, 

And  men  believed  that  praise  of  God  was  sung 
In  curbing  self  as  well  as  singing  psalms, 
There  lived  a  monk,  Macarius  by  name, 
A  holy  man,  to  whom  the  faithful  came 
With  hungry  hearts  to  hear  the  wondrous  Word. 
In  sight  of  gushing  springs  and  sheltering  palms, 
He  dwelt  within  the  desert :  from  the  marsh 
He  drank  the  brackish  water,  and  his  food 
Was  dates  and  roots, —  and  -all  his  rule  was  harsh, 
For  pampered  flesh  in  those  days  warred  with 

good. 


MACARIUS    THE    MONK.  5 

From  those  who  came  in  scores  a  few  there  were 

Who  feared  the  devil  more  than  fast  and  prayer,  - 

And  these  remained  and  took  the  hermit's  vow. 

A  dozen  saints  there  grew  to  be ;  and  now 

Macarius,  happy,  lived  in  larger  care. 

He  taught  his  brethren  all  the  lore  he  knew, 

And  as  they  learned,  his  pious  rigors  grew. 

His  whole  intent  was  on  the  spirit's  goal : 

He  taught  them  silence  —  words  disturb  the  soul : 

He   warned   of  joys,   and   bade   them   pray  for 

sorrow, 

And  be  prepared  to-day  for  death  to-morrow 
To  know  that  human  life  alone  was  given 
To  prove  the  souls  of  those  who  merit  heaven ; 
He  bade  the  twelve  in  all  things  be  as  brothers, 
And  die  to  self,  to  live  and  work  for  others. 
"For  so,"  he  said,  "we  save  our  love  and  labors, 
And    each    one   gives    his   own   and    takes    his 

neighbor's." 

Thus  long  he  taught,  and  while  they  silent  heard, 
He  prayed  for  fruitful  soil  to  hold  the  Word. 


6        SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

One  day,  beside  the  marsh  they  labored  long, — 
.  For  worldly  work  makes  sweeter  sacred  song, — 
And  when  the  cruel  sun  made  hot  the  sand, 
And  Afric's  gnats  the  sweltering  face  and  hand 
Tormenting  stung,  a  passing  traveller  stood 
.^.nd  watched  the  workers  by  the  reeking  flood. 
Macarius,  nigh,  with  heat  and  toil  was  faint ; 
The  traveller  saw,  and  to  the  suffering  saint 
A  bunch  of  luscious  grapes  in  pity  threw. 
Most  sweet  and  fresh  and  fair  they  were  to  view, 
A  generous  cluster,  bursting-rich  with  wine. 
Macarius -longed  to  taste.     "The  fruit  is  mine," 
He  said,  and  sighed  ;  "but  I,  who  daily  teach, 
Feel  now  the  bond  to  practise  as  I  preach." 
He  gave  the  cluster  to  the  nearest  one, 
And  with  his  heavy  toil  went  patient  on. 

As  one  athirst  will  greet  a  flowing  brim, 
The  tempting  fruit  made  moist  the  mouth  of  him 
Who  took  the  gift ;  but  in  the  yearning  eye 
Rose  brighter  light :  to  one  whose  lip  was  dry 
He  gave  the  grapes,  and  bent  him  to  his  spade. 


THE    TRIAL    OF    THE    GODS.  7 

And  he  who  took,  unknown  to  any  other, 
The  sweet  refreshment  handed  to  a  brother. 
And  so,  from  each  to  each,  till  round  was  made 
The  circuit  wholly  —  when  the  grapes  at  last, 
Untouched  and  tempting,  to  Macarius  passed. 

"Now  God  be  thanked  !"  he  cried,  and  ceased  his 

toil; 

"The  seed  was  good,  but  better  was  the  soil. 
My  brothers,  join  with  me  to  bless  the  day." 
But,  ere  they  knelt,  he  threw  the  grapes  away. 


THE  TRIAL  OF  THE  GODS. 

"  ON  a  regular  division  of  the  [Roman]  Senate,  Jupiter  was 
condemned  and  degraded  by  the  sense  of  a  very  large  major 
ity."  —  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall. 


nobler  was  the  Senate, 
Never  grander  the  debate  : 
Rome's  old  gods  are  on  their  trial 
By  the  judges  of  the  state  ! 


SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Torn  by  warring  creeds,  the  Fathers 
Urge  to-day  the  question  home  — 

w  Whether  Jupiter  or  Jesus 

Shall  be  God  henceforth  in  Rome?" 

Lo,  the  scene  !     In  Jove's  own  temple, 

As  of  old,  the  Fathers  meet ; 
Through  the  porch,  to  hear  the  speeches, 

Press  the  people  from  the  street. 
Pontiffs,  rich  with  purple  vesture, 

Pass  from  senate  chair  to  chair ; 
Learned  augurs,  still  as  statues  — 

•  Voiceless  statues,  too  —  are  there  ; 
Vestal  virgins,  white  with  terror, 

Mutely  asking  —  what  has  come  ? 
What  new  light  shall  turn  to  darkness 

Vesta's  holy  fire  in  Rome  ? 

Answer,  Quindecemvirs  !     Surely, 

Of  this  wondrous  Nazarene 
Ye  must  know,  who  keep  the  secrets 

Of  the  prophet  Sibylline  ? 


THE    TRIAL    OF    THE    GODS. 

Nay,  no  word  !     Here  stand  the  Flamens  : 
Have  ye  read  the  omens,  priests? 

Slain  the  victims,  white  and  sable, 
Scanned  the  entrails  of  the  beasts? 

Priest  of  Pallas,  see  !  the  people 

Ask  for  oracles  to-day  : 
Silent !    Priests  of  Mars  and  Venus? 

Lo,  they  turn,  dumb-lipped,  away  1 
Priest  of  Jove  ?     Flamen  dialis  ! 

Here  in  Jove's  own  temple  meet 
In  debate  the  Eoman  Senate, 

And  Jove's  priest  with  timid  feet 
Stands  beyond  the  altar  railing  ! 

Gods,  I  feel  ye  frown  above  ! 
In  the  shadow  of  Jove's  altar 

Men  defy  the  might  of  Jove  I 

Treason  riots  in  the  temple 

At  the  sacrilege  profound  : 
Virgins  mocked,  and  augurs  banished, 

And  divinities  discrowned  ! 


IO       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Hush  !     Old  Rome  herself  appeareth, 

Pleading  for  the  ancient  faith  : 
Urging  all  her  by-gone  glory  — 

That  to  change  the  old  were  death. 
Rudely  answer  the  patricians, 

Scoffing  at  the  time-worn  snare  : 
Twice  a  thousand  years  of  sacrifice 

Have  melted  into  air ; 
Twice  a  thousand  years  of  worship 

Have  bitterly  sufficed 
To  prove  there  is  no  Jupiter  ! 

The  Senate  votes  for  Christ ! 


Not  aimless  is  the  story, 

The  moral  not  remote  : 
For  still  the  gods  are  questioned, 

And  still  the  Senates  vote. 
Men  sacrifice  to  Venus  ; 

To  Mars  are  victims  led  ; 
And  Mercury  is  honored  still ; 

And  Bacchus  is  not  dead  ;  — • 


THE   SHADOW.  II 

But  these  are  minor  deities 

That  cling  to  human  sight : 
Our  twilight  they  —  but  Right  and  Wrong 

Are  clear  as  day  and  night. 
We  know  the  Truth  :  but  falsehood 

With  our  lives  is  so  inwove  — 
Our  Senates  vote  down  Jesus 

As  old  Rome  degraded  Jove  ! 


THE   SHADOW. 

/TPHERE  is  a  shadow  on  the  sunny  wall, 

Dark  and  forbidding,  like  a  bode  of  ill ; 
Go,  drive  it  thence.     Alas,  such  shadows  fall 
From  real  things,  nor  may  be  moved  at  will. 

There  is  a  shadow  on  my  heart  to-day, 
A  cloudy  grief  condensing  to  a  tear : 

Alas,  I  cannot  drive  its  gloom  away  — 

Some  sin  or  sorrow  casts  the  shapeless  fear. 


12       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 


THE  VALUE  OF  GOLD. 

'THHERE  may  be  standard  weight  for  precious 
metal, 

But  deeper  meaning  it  must  ever  hold  , 
Thank  God,  there  are  some  things  no  law  can  settle, 

And  one  of  these  —  the  real  worth  of  gold. 

The  stamp  of  king  or  crown  has  common  power 
To  hold  the  traffic-value  in  control ; 

Our  coarser  senses  note  this  worth  —  the  lower; 
The  higher  comes  from  senses  of  the  soul. 

This  truth  we  find  not  in  mere  warehouse  learning — 
The  value  varies  with  the  hands  that  hold ; 

The  worth  depends  upon  the  mode  of  earning ; 
And  this  man's  copper  equals  that  man's  gold. 


With    empty    heart,    and    forehead    lined    with 

scheming, 
Men's  sin  and  sorrow  have  been  that  man's  gain  ; 


THE    VALUE    OF    GOLD.  13 


But  this  man's  heart,  with  rich  emotions  teeming, 
Makes  fine  the  gold  for  which  he  coins  his  brain. 


But  richer  still  than  gold  from  upright  labor  — 
The  only  gold  that  should  have  standard  price — 

Is  the  poor  earning  of  our  humble  neighbor, 
Whose  every  coin  is  red  with  sacrifice. 

Mere  store  of  money  is  not  wealth,  but  rather 
The  proof  of  poverty  and  need  of  bread. 

Like  men  themselves  is  the  bright  gold  they  gather  : 
It  may  be  living,  or  it  may  be  dead. 

It  may  be  filled  with  love  and  life  and  vigor, 
To  guide  the  wearer,  and  to  cheer  the  way ; 

It  may  be  corpse-like  in  its  weight  and  rigor, 
Bending  the  bearer  to  his  native  clay. 

There  is  no  comfort  but  in  outward  showing 
In  all  the  servile  homage  paid  to  dross  ; 

Better  to  heart  and  soul  the  silent  knowing 
Our  little  store  has  not  been  gained  by  loss. 


14       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 


PEACE  AND  PALN. 

r  I  ^HE  day  and  night  are  symbols  of  creation, 

And  each  has  part  in  all  that  God  has  made  ; 
There  is  no  ill  without  its  compensation, 

And  life  and  death  are  only  light  and  shade. 
There  never  beat  a  heart  so  base  and  sordid 

But  felt  at  times  a  sympathetic  glow  ; 
There  never  lived  a  virtue  unrewarded, 

Nor  died  a  vice  without  its  meed  of  woe. 

In  this  brief  life  despair  should  never  reach  us  ; 

The  sea  looks  wide  because  the  shores  are  dim  ; 
The  star  that  led  the  Magi  still  can  teach  us 

The  way  to  go  if  we  but  look  to  Him. 
And  as  we  wade,  the  darkness  closing  o'er  us, 

The  hungry  waters  surging  to  the  chin, 
Our  deeds  will  rise  like  stepping-stones  before  us  — 

The  good  and  bad  —  for  we  may  use  the  sin. 


A    SEED.  15 

A  sin  of  youth,  atoned  for  and  forgiven, 

Takes  on  a  virtue,  if  we  choose  to  find  : 
When  clouds  across  our  onward  path  are  driven, 

We  still  may  steer  by  its  pale  light  behind. 
A  sin  forgotten  is  in  part  to  pay  for, 

A  sin  remembered  is  a  constant  gain  : 
Sorrow,  next  joy,  is  what  we  ought  to  pray  for, 

As  next  to  peace  we  profit  most  from  pain. 


A  SEED. 

A    KINDLY  act  is  a  kernel  sown, 

"  That  will  grow  to  a  goodly  tree, 
Shedding  its  fruit  when  time  has  flown 
Down  the  gulf  of  eternity. 


1 6        SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 


CHUNDER    ALI'S    WIFE. 

FROM   THE    HINDOSTANBE. 

"T  AM  poor,"  said  Chunder  All,  while  the  Man 
darin  above  him 

Frowned  in  supercilious  anger  at  the  dog  who 
dared  to  speak; 

"  I  am  friendless  and  a  Hindoo :  such  a  one  meets 
few  to  love  him 

Here  in  China,  where  the  Hindoo  finds  the  truth 
alone  is  weak. 

I  have  naught  to  buy  your  justice ;  were  I  wise,  I 
had  not  striven. 

Speak  your  judgment ;"  and  he  crossed  his  arms 
and  bent  his  quivering  face. 


CHUNDER   ALI'S   WIFE.  I/ 

Heard  he  then  the  unjust  sentence :  all  his  goods 

and  gold  were  given 
To  another,  and  he  stood  alone,  a  beggar  in  the 

place. 

And  the  man  who  bought  the  judgment  looked 

in  triumph  and  derision 
At  the  cheated  Hindoo  merchant,  as  he  rubbed 

his  hands  and  smiled 
At  the  whispered  gratulation  of  his  friends,  and  at 

the  vision 
Of  the  more  than  queenly  dower  for  Ahmeer,  his 

only  child. 
Fair  Ahmeer,  who  of  God's  creatures  was  the  only 

one  who  loved  him, 
She,  the  diamond  of  his  treasures,  the  one  lamb 

within  his  fold, 
She,  whose  voice,  like  her  dead  mother's,  was  the 

only  power  that  moved  him,  — 
She  would  praise  the  skill  that  gained  her  all  this 

Hindoo's  silk  and  gold. 
And  the  old  man  thanked  Confucius,  and  the  judge, 

and  him  who  pleaded. 


1 8       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

But  why  falls  this  sudden  silence  ?  why  does  each 

one  hold  his  breath  ? 
Every  eye  turns  on  the  Hindoo,  who  before  was 

all  unheeded, 
And  in  wond'ring  expectation  all  the  court  grows 

still  as  death. 

Not  alone  stood  Chunder  Ali :  by  his  side  Ahmeer 

was  standing, 
And  his  brown  hand  rested  lightly  on  her  shoulder 

as  he  smiled 
At  the  sweet  young  face  turned  toward  him.    Then 

the  father's  voice  commanding 
Fiercely  bade  his  daughter  to  him  from  the  dog 

whose  touch  defiled. 
But  she  moved  not,  and  she  looked  not  at  her  father 

or  the  others 
As  she  answered,  with  her  eyes  upon  the  Hindoo's 

noble  face : 
"  Nay,  my  father,  he  defiles  not :  this  kind  arm  above 

all  others 
Is  my  choosing,  and  forever  by  his  side  shall  be  my 

place. 


A    KISS.  19 

When  you  knew  not,  his  dear  hand  had  given 

many  a  sweet  love-token, 
He  had  gathered  all  my    heartstrings    and  had 

bound  them  round  his  life  ; 
Yet  you  tell  me  he  defiles  me ;  nay,  my  father, 

you  have  spoken 
In  your  anger,  and  not  knowing  I  was  Chunder 

Ali's  wife." 


A  KISS. 

T    OVE  is  a  plant  with  double  root, 
And  of  strange,  elastic  power  : 
Men's  minds  are  divided  in  naming  the  fruit, 
But  a  kiss  is  only  the  flower. 


2O       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 


BONE  AND   SINEW  AND  BRAIX. 

"VT'E  white-mailed  waves  of  the  Western  Sea, 

That  ride  and  roll  to  the  strand, 
Ye  strong-winged  birds,  never  forced  a-lee 

By  the  gales  that  sweep  toward  land, 
Ye  are  symbols  of  death,  and  of  hope  that  saves, 

As  ye  swoop  in  your  strength  and  grace, 
As  ye  roll  to  the  land  like  the  billowed  graves 

Of  a  past  and  puerile  race. 

Cry,  "Presto,  change  ! "  and  the  lout  is  lord, 

With  his  vulgar  blood  turned  blue  ; 
Go  dub  your  knight  with  a  slap  of  a  sword, 

As  the  kings  in  Europe  do  ; 
Go  grade  the  lines  of  your  social  mode 

As  you  grade  the  palace  wall, — 
The  people  forever  to  bear  the  load, 

And  the  gilded  vanes  o'er  all. 


BONE    AND    SINEW    AND    BRAIN.  21 

But  the  human  blocks  will  not  lie  as  still 

As  the  dull  foundation-stones, 
But  will  rise,  like  a  sea,  with  an  awful  will, 

And  ingulf  the  golden  thrones  ; 
For  the  days  are  gone  when  a  special  race 

Took  the  place  of  the  gilded  vane  ; 
And  the  merit  that  mounts  to  the  highest  place 

Must  have  bone  and  sinew  and  brain. 

Let  the  cant  of  "the  march  of  mind "  be  heard, 

Of  the  time  to  come,  when  man 
Shall  lose  the  mark  of  his  brawn  and  beard 

In  the  future's  levelling  plan  : 
Tis  the  dream  of  a  mind  effeminate, 

The  whine  for  an  easy  crown  ; 
There  is  no  meed  for  the  good  and  great 

In  the  weakling's  levelling  down. 

A  nation's  boast  is  a  nation's  bone, 

As  well  as  its  might  of  mind  ; 
And  the  culture  of  either  of  these  alone 

Is  the  doom  of  a  nation  signed. 


22       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

But  the  cant  of  the  ultra-suasion  school 

Uusinews  the  hand  and  thigh, 
And  preaches  the  creed  of  the  weak  to  rule, 

And  the  strong  to  struggle  and  die. 
Our  schools  are  spurred  to  the  fatal  race, 

As  if  health  were  the  nation's  sin, 
Till  the  head  grows  large,  and  the  vampire  face 

Is  gorged  on  the  limbs  so  thin. 
Our  women  have  entered  the  abstract  fields, 

And  avauut  with  the  child  and  home  : 
While  the  rind  of  science  a  pleasure  yields 

Shall  they  care  for  the  lives  to  come  ? 
And  they  ape  the  manners  of  manly  times 

In  their  sterile  and  worthless  life, 
Till  the  man  of  the  future  augments  his  crimes 

With  a  raid  for  a  Sabine  wife. 

Ho,  white-maued  waves  of  the  Western  Sea, 

That  ride  and  roll  to  the  strand  ! 
Ho,  strong-winged  birds,  never  blown  a-lee 

By  the  gales  that  sweep  toward  land  ! 


TO-DAY.  23 

Ye  arc  symbols  both  of  a  hope  that  saves, 

As  ye  swoop  in  your  strength  and  grace, 
As  ye  roll  to  the  land  like  the  billowed  graves 

Of  a  suicidal  race. 
Ye  have  hoarded  your  strength  in  equal  parts  ; 

For  the  men  of  the  future  reign 
Must  have  faithful  souls  and  kindly  hearts, 

And  bone  and  sinew  and  brain. 


TO-DAY. 

/^AXLY  from  day  to  day 

The  life  of  a  wise  man  runs  ; 
What  matter  if  seasons  far  away 
Have  gloom  or  have  double  suns  ? 

To  climb  the  unreal  path, 

We  stray  from  the  roadway  here ; 
We  swim  the  rivers  of  wrath, 

And  tunnel  the  hills  of  fear. 


24       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Our  feet  on  the  torrent's  brink, 
Our  eyes  on  the  cloud  afar, 

We  fear  the  things  we  think, 
Instead  of  the  things  that  are. 


r> 


Like  a  tide  our  work  should  rise 
Each  later  wave  the  best ; 

To-day  is  a  king  in  disguise,* 
To-day  is  the  special  test. 

Like  a  sawyer's  work  is  life  : 
The  present  makes  the  flaw, 

And  the  only  field  for  strife 
Is  the  inch  before  the  saw. 


*"The  days  are  ever  divine They  come  and  go  like 

muffled  and  veiled  figures,  sent  from  a  distant  friendly  party; 
but  they  say  nothing;  and  if  we  do  not  use  the  gifts  they  bring, 
they  carry  them  as  silently  away." — Emerson. 


MY    NATIVE    LAND.  2$ 


MY  NATIVE  LAND. 

TT  chanced  to  me  upon  a  time  to  sail 

Across  the  Southern  Ocean  to  and  fro ; 
And,  landing  at  fair  isles,  by  stream  and  vale 

Of  sensuous  blessing  did  we  ofttimes  go. 
And  months  of  dreamy  joys,  like  joys  in  sleep, 

Or  like  a  clear,  calm  stream  o'er  mossy  stone, 
Unnoted  passed  our  hearts  with  voiceless  sweep, 

And  left  us  yearning  still  for  lands  unknown. 

And  when  we  found  one,  —  for  'tis  soon  to  find 
In  thousand-isled  Cathay  another  isle,  — 

For  one  short  noon  its  treasures  filled  the  mind, 
And  then  again  we  yearned,  and  ceased  to  smile. 

And  so  it  was,  from  isle  to  isle  we  passed, 
Like  wanton  bees  or  boys  on  flowers  or  lips ; 


26       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND.  BALLADS. 

And  when  that  all  was  tasted,  then  at  last 
We  thirsted  still  for  draughts  instead  of  sips. 

I  learned  from  this  there  is  no  Southern  land 

Can  fill  with  love  the  hearts  of  Northern  rnen. 
Sick  minds  need  change ;  hut,  when  in  health  they 
stand 

'Neath  foreign  skies,  their  love  flies  home  agen. 
And  thus  with  me  it  was  :  the  yearning  turned 

From  laden  airs  of  cinnamon  away, 
And  stretched  far  westward,  while  the  full  heart 
burned 

With  love  for  Ireland,  looking  on  Cathay  I 

My  first  dear  love,  all  dearer  for  thy  grief ! 

My  land,  that  has  no  peer  in  all  the  sea 
For  verdure,  vale,  or  river,  flower  or  leaf,  — 

If  first  to  no  man  else,  thou  'rt  first  to  me. 
New  loves  may  come  with  duties,  but  the  first 

Is  deepest  yet,  —  the  mother's  breath  and  smiles : 
Like  that  kind  face  and  breast  where  I  was  nursed 

Is  my  poor  land,  the  Niobe  of  isles. 


THERE    IS    BLOOD    ON    THE    EARTH.  2J 


THERE  IS   BLOOD  ON  THE  EARTH. 

ERE  is  blood  on  the  face  of  the  earth  - 
It  reeks  through  the  years,  and  is  red  : 
Where  Truth  was  slaughtered  at  birth, 
And  the  veins  of  Liberty  bled. 

Lo  !  vain  is  the  hand  that  tries 

To  cover  the  crimson  stain  : 
It  spreads  like  a  plague,  and  cries 

Like  a  soul  in  writhing  pain. 

It  wasteth  the  planet's  flesh  ; 

It  callcth  on  breasts  of  stone  : 
God  holdcth  His  wrath  in  a  leash 

Till  the  hearts  of  men  atone. 

Blind,  like  the  creatures  of  time ; 
Cursed,  like  all  the  race, 


28       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

They  answer :  "  The  blood  and  crime 
Belong  to  a  sect  and  place  ! " 

What  are  these  things  to  Heaven  — 

Races  or  places  of  men  ? 
The  world  through  one  Christ  was  forgiven 

Nor  question  of  races  then. 

The  wrong  of  to-day  shall  be  rued 

In  a  thousand  coming  years  ; 
The  debt  must  be  paid  in  blood, 

The  interest,  in  tears. 

Shall  none  stand  up  for  right 

Whom  the  evil  passes  by? 
But  God  has  the  globe  in  sight, 

And  hearkens  the  weak  ones'  cry. 

Wherever  a  principle  dies  — 

Nay,  principles  never  die  ! 
But  wherever  a  ruler  lies, 

And  a  people  share  the  lie  ; 


THE    RIDE    OF    COLLINS    GRAVES.  2Q 

"Where  right  is  crushed  by  force, 
And  manhood  is  stricken  dead  — 

There  dwelleth  the  ancient  curse, 
Aud  the  blood  on  the  earth  is  red  I 


THE  RIDE  OF  COLLINS  GRAVES. 

AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  FLOOD  IN  MASSACHUSETTS,  ON  MAY 

16,  1874. 

"JVTO  song  of  a  soldier  riding  down 

To  the  raging  fight  from  Winchester  town ; 
No  song  of  a  time  that  shook  the  earth 
With  the  nations'  throe  at  a  nation's  birth ; 
But  the  song  of  a  brave  man,  free  from  fear 
As  Sheridan's  self  or  Paul  Revere  ; 
Who  risked  what  they  risked,  free  from  strife, 
And  its  promise  of  glorious  pay  —  his  life  ! 

The  peaceful  valley  has  waked  and  stirred, 
And  the  answering  echoes  of  life  are  heard : 


3O       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

The  dew  still  clings  to  the  trees  and  grass, 

And  the  early  toilers  smiling  pass, 

As  they  glance  aside  at  the  white-walled  homes, 

Or  up  the  valley,  where  merrily  comes 

The  brook  that  sparkles  in  diamond  rills 

As  the  sun  comes  over  the  Hampshire  hills. 

What  was  it,  that  passed  like  an  ominous  breath  — 
Like  a  shiver  of  fear,  or  a  touch  of  death  ? 
What  was  it?    The  valley  is  peaceful  still, 
And  the  leaves  are  afire  on  top  of  the  hill. 
It  was  not  a  sound  —  nor  a  thing;  of  sense  — 
But  a  pain,  like  the  pang  of  the  short  suspense 
That  thrills  the  being  of  those  who  see 
At  their  feet  the  gulf  of  Eternity  ! 

The  air  of  the  valley  has  felt  the  chill : 
The  workers  pause  at  the  door  of  the  mill ; 
The  housewife,  keen  to  the  shivering  air, 
Arrests  her  foot  on  the  cottage  stair, 
Instinctive  taught  by  the  mother-love, 
And  thinks  of  the  sleeping  ones  above. 


THE   RIDE   OF    COLLINS    GRAVES.  3! 

Why  start  the  listeners  ?     Why  does  the  course 
Of  the  mill-stream  widen  ?     Is  it  a  horse  — 
Hark  to  the  sound  of  his  hoofs,  they  say  — 
That  gallops  so  wildly  Williamsburg  way  ! 

God  !  what  was  that,  like  a  human  shriek 
From  the  winding  valley  ?     Will  nobody  speak  ? 
Will  nobody  answer  those  women  who  cry 
As  the  awful  warnings  thunder  by  ? 

Whence   come   they  ?     Listen !     And    now  they 

hear 

The  sound  of  the  galloping  horse-hoofs  near ; 
They  watch  the  trend  of  the  vale,  and  see 
The  rider  who  thunders  so  menacingly, 
With  waving  arms  and  warning  scream 
To  the  home-filled  banks  of  the  valley  stream. 
He  draws  no  rein,  but  he  shakes  the  street 
With  a  shout  and  the  ring  of  the  galloping  feet ; 
And  this  the  cry  he  flings  to  the  wind  : 
"To    the    hills   for    your    lives!     The    flood   is 

behind ! " 


32       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

He  cries  and  is  gone  ;  but  they  know  the  worst  — 
The  breast  of  the  Williamstmrg  dam  has  burst ! 
The  basin  that  nourished  their  happy  homes 
Is  changed  to  a  demon  —  It  comes  !  it  comes  ! 

A  monster  in  aspect,  with  shaggy  front 

Of  shattered  dwellings,  to  take  the  brunt 

Of   the   homes   they   shatter  —  white-maned  and 

hoarse, 

The  merciless  Terror  fills  the  course 
Of  the  narrow  valley,  and  rushing  raves, 
With  Death  on  the  first  of  its  hissing  waves, 
Till  cottage  and  street  and  crowded  mill 
Are  crumbled  and  crushed. 

But  onward  still, 

In  front  of  the  roaring  flood  is  heard 
The  galloping  horse  and  the  warning  word. 
Thank  God  !  the  brave  man's  life  is  spared  ! 
From  Williamsburg  town  he  nobly  dared 
To  race  with  the  flood  and  take  the  road 
In  front  of  the  terrible  swath  it  mowed. 


STAR-GAZING.  33 

For  miles  it  thundered  and  crashed  behind, 
But  he  looked  ahead  with  a  steadfast  mind  ; 
"They  must  be  warned  ! "  was  all  he  said, 
As  away  on  his  terrible  ride  he  sped. 

When  heroes  are  called  for,  bring  the  crown 
To  this  Yankee  rider  :  send  him  down 
On  the  stream  of  time  with  the  Curtius  old  ; 
His  deed  as  the  Roman's  was  brave  and  bold, 
And  the  tale  can  as  noble  a  thrill  awake, 
For  he  offered  his  life  for  the  people's  sake. 


STAR-GAZING. 

T    ET   be  what  is :    why  should  we  strive  and 
wrestle 

With  awkward  skill  against  a  subtle  doubt? 
Or  pin  a  mystery  'neath  our  puny  pestle, 

And  vainly  try  to  bray  its  secret  out? 


34       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

What  boots  it  me  to  gaze  at  other  planets, 
And  speculate  on  sensate  beings  there  ? 

It  comforts  not  that,  since  the  moon  began  its 
Well-ordered  course,  it  knew  no  breath  of  air. 

There  may  be  men  and  women  up  in  Venus, 
Where   science  finds   both   summer-green  and 

snow; 

But  are  we  happier  asking,  "  Have  they  seen  us  ? 
And,   like    us   earth-men,    do   they   yearn   to 
know?" 

On  greater  globes  than  ours  men  may  be  greater, 
For  all  things  here  in  fair  proportion  run ; 

But  will  it  make  our  poor  cup  any  sweeter 

To  think  a  nobler  Shakespeare  thrills  the  sun  ? 

Or,  that  our  sun  is  but  itself  a  minor, 

Like  this  dark  earth —  a  tenth-rate  satellite, 

That  swings  submissive  round  an  orb  diviner, 
Whose   day   is   lightning,    with    our    day   for 
night? 


STAR-GAZING.  35 

Or,  past  all  suns,  to  find  the  awful  centre 

Round  which  they  meanly  wind  a  servile  road  ; 

Ah,  Avill  it  raise  us  or  degrade,  to  enter 

Where  that  world's  Shakespeare  towers  almost 
to  God? 

No,  no  ;  far  better,  "lords  of  all  creation" 
To  strut  our  ant-hill,  and  to  take  our  ease  ; 

To  look  aloft  and  say,  "That  constellation 
Was  lighted  there  our  regal  sight  to  please  !  " 

We  owe  no  thanks  to  so-called  men  of  science, 
Who    demonstrate   that  earth,    not   sun,    goes 
round ; 

'Twere  better  think  the  sun  a  mere  appliance 
To  light  man's  villages  and  heat  his  ground. 

There  seems  no  good  in  asking  or  in  humbling ; 

The  mind  incurious  has  the  most  of  rest ; 
If  we  can  live  and   laugh  and  pray,  not  grum 
bling, 

'Tis  all  we  can  do  here  —  and  'tis  the  best. 


36       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

The  throbbing  brain  will  burst  its  tender  raiment 
With  futile  force,  to  see  by  finite  light 

How  man's  brief  earning  and  eternal  payment 
Arc  weighed  as  equal  in  th'  Infinite  sight. 

Tis  all  in  vain  to  struggle  with  abstraction  — 
The  milky-way  that  tempts  our  mental  glass  ; 

The  study  for  mankind  is  earth-born  action  ; 
The  highest  wisdom,  let  the  wondering  pass. 

The   Lord   knows   best :    He   gave   us  thirst  for 
learning ; 

And  deepest  knowledge  of  His  work  betrays 
No  thirst  left  waterless.     Shall  our  soul-yearning, 

Apart  from  all  things,  be  a  quenchless  blaze  ? 


DOLORES.  37 


DOLORES. 

TS  he  well  blest  who  has  no  eyes  to  scan 

The  woful  things  that  shadow  all  our  life : 
The  latent  brute  behind  the  eyes  of  man, 

The  place  and  power  gained  and  stained   by 

strife, 

The  weakly  victims  driven  to  the  wall, 
The  subtile  cruelties  that  meet  us  all 
Like  eyes  from  darksome  places  ?     Blest  is  he 
Who  such  sad  things  is  never  doomed  to  see  ! 

The  crust  of  common  life  is  worn  by  time,' 
And  shines  deception,  as  a  thin  veneer 
The  raw  plank  hides,  or  as  the  frozen  mere 
Holds  drowned  men  embedded  in  its  slime  ; 
The  ninety  eat  their  bread  of  death  and  crime, 
And  sin  and  sorrow  that  the  ten  may  thrive. 

O,  moaning  sea  of  life  !  the  few  who  dive 
Beneath  thy  waters,  faint  and  short  of  breath , 


38       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Not  Dante-like,  who  cannot  swim  in  death 
And  view  its  secrets,  but  must  swiftly  rise,  — 
They  meet  the  light  with  introverted  eyes, 
And  hands  that  clutch  a  few  dim  mysteries  ! 

Our  life  a  harp  is,  with  unnumbered  strings, 
And  tones  and  symphonies  ;  but  our  poor  skill 

Some  shallow  notes  from  its  great  music  brings. 
We  know  it  there  ;  but  vainly  wish  and  will. 

O,    things    symbolic !     Things    that    mock    our 

sense  — 

Our  five-fold,  pitiable  sense  —  and  say 
A  thousand  senses  could  not  show  one  day 
As  sight  infinite  sees  it ;  fruitful  clay, 
And  budding  bough,  and  nature  great  with  child 
And  chill  with  doom  and  death  —  is  all  so  dense 
That  our  dull  thought  can  never  read  thy  words, 
Or  sweep  with  knowing  hand  thy  hidden  chords  ? 

Have  men  not  fallen  from  fair  heights,  once  trod 
By  nobler  minds,  who  saw  the  works  of  God, 


LOVE,    AND    BE    WISE.  39 

The  flowers  and  living  things,  still  undefiled, 
And  spoke  one  language  with  them  ?  And  can  we, 
In  countless  generations,  each  more  pure 
Thau  that  preceding,  come  at  last  to  see 
Thy  symbols  full  of  meaning,  and  be  sure 
That  what  we  read  is  all  they  have  to  tell  ? 


LOVE,  AND  BE  WISE. 

"IVTOT  on  the  word  alone 

Let  love  depend ; 
Neither  by  actions  done 
Choose  ye  the  friend. 

Let  the  slow  years  fly  — 
These  are  the  test ; 

Never  to  peering  eye 
Opened  the  breast. 


4O       SONGS,  LEGENDS.  AND  BALLADS. 

Psyche  won  hopeless  woe, 
Reaching  to  take ; 

Wait  till  your  lilies  grow 
Up  from  the  lake. 

Gather  words  patiently ; 

Harvest  the  deed ; 
Let  the  winged  years  fly, 

Sifting  the  seed. 

Judging  by  harmony, 
Learning  by  strife ; 

Seeking  in  unity 
Precept  and  life. 

Seize  the  supernal  — 
Prometheus  dies ; 

Take  the  external 

On  trust  —  and  be  wise. 


RESURGITE.  4! 


RESURGITE!  — JUNE,  1877. 

TVTOW,  for  the  faith  that  is  in  ye, 

Polaucler,  Sclav,  and  Kelt ! 
Prove  to  the  world  what  the  lips  have  hurled 
The  hearts  have  grandly  felt. 

Rouse,  ye  races  in  shackles  ! 

See  in  the  East,  the  glare 
Is  red  in  the  sky,  and  the  warning  cry 

Is  sounding  —  "  Awake  !  Prepare  !  " 

A  voice  from  the  spheres — a  hand  downreached 

To  hands  that  would  be  free, 
To  rend  the  gyves  from  the  fettered  lives 

That  strain  toward  Liberty  ! 

Circassia  !  the  cnp  is  flowing 
That  holdeth  perennial  youth  : 


42        SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Who  strikes  succeeds,  for  when  manhood  bleeds 
Each  drop  is  a  Cadmus'  tooth. 

Sclavonia  !  first  from  the  sheathing 

Thy  knife  to  the  cord  that  binds  ; 
Thy  one-tongued  host  shall  renew  the  boast : 

"  The  Scythians  are  the  Winds  !  " 

Greece  !  to  the  grasp  of  heroes, 

Flashed  with  thine  ancient  pride, 
Thy  swords  advance  :  in  the  passing  chance 

The  great  of  heart  are  tried. 

Poland  !  thy  lance-heads  brighten  : 

The  Tartar  has  swept  thy  name 
From  the  schoolman's  chart,  but  the  patriot's  heart 

Preserves  its  lines  in  flame. 

Ireland  !  mother  of  dolors, 

The  trial  on  thee  descends  : 
Who  quaileth  in  fear  when  the  test  is  near, 

His  bondage  never  ends. 


RESURGITE.  43 

Oppression,  that  kills  the  craven, 

Defied,  is  the  freeman's  good  : 
No  cause  can  be  lost  forever  whose  cost 

Is  coined  from  Freedom's  blood  ! 

Liberty's  wine  and  altar 

Are  blood  and  human  right ; 

Her  weak  shall  be  strong  while  the  struggle  with 
wrong 

Is  a  sacrificial  fight. 

Earth  for  the  people  —  their  laws  their  own  — 

An  equal  race  for  all  : 
Though  shattered  and  few  who  to  this  are  true 

Shall  flourish  the  more  they  fall. 


44       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 


RULES   OF  THE  ROAD. 

"TTTHAT  man  would  be  wise,  let  him  drink  of 

the  river 

That  bears  on  its  bosom  the  record  of  tune ; 
A  message  to  him  every  wave  can  deliver 

To  teach  him  to  creep  till  he  knows  how  to 

climb. 
Who  heeds  not  experience,  trust   him  not ;  tell 

him 

The  scope  of  one  mind  can  but  trifles  achieve : 
The  weakest  who  draws  from  the  mine  will  excel 

him  — 

The   wealth    of  mankind   is  the  wisdom  they 
leave. 

For  peace  do  not  hope  —  to  be  just  you  must 
break  it ; 

Still  work  for  the  minute  and  not  for  the  year ; 
"When  honor  comes  to  you,  be  ready  to  take  it ; 

But  reach  not  to  seize  it  before  it  is  near. 


RULES    OF    THE    ROAD.  45 

Be  silent  and  safe  —  silence  never  betrays  you  ; 
Be  true  to  your  word  and  your  work  and  your 

friend ; 
Put  least  trust  in  him  who  is  foremost  to  praise 

you, 
Nor  judge  of  a  road  till  it  draw  to  the  end. 

Stand  erect  in  the  vale,  nor  exult  on  the  moun 
tain; 
Take  gifts  with  a  sigh  —  most  men  give  to  be 

paid; 

"1  had"  is  a  heartache,  "I  have"  is  a  fountain, — 
You're  worth  what  you  saved,  not  the  million 

you  made. 

Trust  toil  not  intent,  or  your  plans  will  miscarry  ; 
Your  wife   keep   a   sweetheart,   instead   of   a 

tease ; 
Rule   children  by  reason,  not   rod;   and,  mind, 

marry 

Your  girl  when  you  can  —  and  your  boy  when 
you  please. 


46       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Steer   straight   as  the  wind  will   allow;   but   be 

ready 

To  veer  just  a  point  to  let  travellers  pass  : 
Each   sees   his  own  star  —  a   stiff  course   is  too 

steady 
When  this  one  to   Meeting  goes,  that  one  to 

Mass. 
Our  stream's  not  so  wide  but  two  arches   may 

span  it  — 

Good  neighbor  and  citizen  ;  these  for  a  code, 
And  this  truth  in  sight, —  every  man  on  the  planet 
Has  just  as  much  right  as  yourself  to  the  road. 


FOREVER. 

r  I  AHOSE  we  love  truly  never  die, 

Though    year    by   year   the   sad   memorial 
wreath, 

A  ring  and  flowers,  types  of  life  and  death, 
Are  laid  upon  their  graves. 


FOREVER.  47 

For  death  the  pure  life  saves, 
And  life  all  pure  is  love  ;  and  love  can  reach 
From  heaven  to  earth,  and  nobler  lessons  teach 

Than  those  by  mortals  read. 

Well  blest  is  he  who  has  a  dear  one  dead : 
A  friend  he  has  whose  face  will  never  change  — 
A  dear  communion  that  will  not  grow  strange  ; 

The  anchor  of  a  love  is  death. 

The  blessed  sweetness  of  a  loving  breath 
Will   reach   our  cheek   all   fresh   through  weary 

years. 
For   her   who   died   long   since,   ah  I   waste   not 

tears, 
She's  thine  unto  the  end. 

Thank  God  for  one  dead  friend, 
With  face  still  radiant  with  the  light  of  truth, 
Whose  love  comes  laden  with  the  scent  of  youth, 

Through  twenty  years  of  death. 


48       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 


THE  LOVING  CUP  OF  THE  PAPYRUS.  * 

~\T  7ISE  men  use  days  as  husbandmen  use  bees, 
And  steal  rich  drops  from  every  pregnant 

hour ; 

Others,  like  wasps  on  blossomed  apple-trees, 
Find  gall,  not  honey,  in  the  sweetest  flower. 

Congratulations  for  a  scene  like  this  ! 

The  olden  times  are  here  —  these  shall  be  olden 
When,  years  to  come,  remembering  present  bliss, 

We  sigh  for  past  Papyrian  dinners  golden. 

We  thank  the  gods  !  we  call  them  back  to  light — 
Call  back  to  hoary  Egypt  for  Osiris, 

Who  first  made  wine,  to  join  our  board  to-night, 
And  drain  this  loving  cup  with  the  Papyrus. 

*  On  February  3d,  1877,  at  the  dinner  of  "The  Papyrus," 
a  club  composed  of  literary  men  and  artists  of  Boston,  a  beau 
tiful  crystal  "  Loving  Cup"  was  presented  to  the  club  by  Mr. 
Win.  A.  Hovey. 


THE  LOVING  CUP  OF  THE  PAPYRUS.     49 

He  coiues !  the  Pharaoh's  god !  fling  wide  the 
door  — 

Welcome,  Osiris  !  See — thine  old  prescription 
Is  honored  here  ;  and  thou  shalt  drink  once  more 

With  men  whose  treasured  ensign  is  Egyptian. 

A  toast !  a  toast !  our  guest  shall  give  a  toast ! 

By  Nilus'  flood,  we  pray  thee,  god,  inspire  us  ! 
He  smiles  —  he  wills — let  not  a  word  be  lost  — 

His  hand  upon  the  cup,  he  speaks :  — 

"  PAPYRUS  ! 

"  I  greet  ye  !  and  mine  ancient  nation  shares 
In  greeting  fair  from  Ammon,  Ptah,  and  Isis, 

Whose  leaf  ye  love  —  dead  Egypt's  leaf,  that  bears 
Our  tale  of  pride  from  Cheops  to  Cambyses. 

"  We  gods  of  Egypt,  who  are  wise  with  age  — 
Five  thousand  years  have  washed  us  clean  of 
passion  — 

A  golden  era  for  this  board  presage, 

While  ye  do  keep  this  cup  in  priestly  fashion. 


5O       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

"  We  love  to  see  the  bonds  of  fellowship 
Made  still  more  sacred  by  a  fine  tradition  ; 

We  bless  this  bowl  that  moves  from  lip  to  lip 
In  love's  festoons,  renewed  by  every  mission. 

w  Intern  the  vessel  from  profaning  eyes  ; 

The  lip  that  kisses  should  have  special  merit ; 
Thus  every  sanguine  draught  shall  symbolize 

And  consecrate  the  true  Papyrian  spirit. 

w  For  brotherhood,  not  wine,  this  cup  should  pass  ; 

Its  depths  should  ne'er  reflect  the  eye  of  malice  ; 
Drink  toasts  to  strangers  with  the  social  glass, 

But  drink  to  brothers  with  this  loving  chalice. 

"And  now,  Papyrus,  each  one  pledge  to  each  : 
And  let  this  formal  tie  be  warmly  cherished. 

No  words  are  needed  for  a  kindly  speech  — 
The  loving  thought  will  live  when  words  have 
perished." 


THE   TREASURE    OF   ABRAM.  5 1 


THE  TREASURE  OF  ABRAM. 
I. 

TN  the  old  Rabbinical  stories, 

So  old  they  might  well  be  true, — 
The  sacred  tales  of  the  Talmud, 

That  David  and  Solomon  knew, — 
There  is  one  of  the  Father  Abram, 

The  greatest  of  Heber's  race, 
The  mustard-seed  of  Judea 

That  filled  the  holy  place. 
'Tis  said  that  the  fiery  heayen 

His  eye  was  first  to  read, 
Till  planets  were  gods  no  longer, 

But  helps  for  the  human  need ; 
He  taught  his  simple  people 

The  scope  of  eternal  law 
That  swayed  at  once  the  fleecy  cloud 

And  the  circling  suns  they  saw. 


52       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

But  the  rude  Chaldean  peasants 

Uprose  against  the  seer, 
And  drave  him  forth  —  else  never  came 

This  Talmud  legend  here. 

With  Sarah  his  wife,  and  his  servants, 

Whom  he  ruled  with  potent  hand, 
The  Patriarch  planted  his  vineyards 

In  the  Canaanitish  land  ; 
With  his  wife  —  the  sterile,  but  lovely, 

The  fame  of  whose  beauty  grew 
Till  there  was  no  land  in  Asia 

But  tales  of  the  treasure  knew. 
In  his  lore  the  sage  lived  —  learning 

High  thought  from  the  starlit  skies  ; 
But  heedful,  too,  of  the  light  at  home, 

And  the  danger  of  wistful  eyes ; 
Till  the  famine  fell  on  his  corn-fields, 

And  sent  him  forth  again, 
To  seek  for  a  home  in  Egypt, — 

The  land  of  the  amorous  men. 


THE   TREASURE   OF   ABRAM.  53 


n. 


Long  and  rich  is  the  caravan  that  halts  at  Egypt's 

gate, 
While  duty  full  the  stranger  pays  on  lowing  herd 

and  freight. 
Full   keen  the   scrutiny  of  those  who  note  the 

heavy  dues ; 
From  weanling  foal  to  cumbrous  wain,  no  chance 

of  gain  they  lose. 

But  fair  the  search  —  no  wealth  concealed ;  while 
rich  the  gifts  they  take 

From  Abram's  hand,  till  care  has  ceased,  and  for 
mal  quest  they  make. 

They  pass  the  droves  and  laden  teams,  the 
weighted  slaves  are  past, 

And  Abram  doubles  still  the  gifts ;  one  wain  — 
his  own  —  is  last — 

It  goes  unsearched  !  Wise  Abram  smiles,  though 
dearly  stemmed  the  quest ; 


54       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

But  haps  will  come  from  causes  slight, 
And  hidden  things  upspriug  to  light : 

A  breeze   flings   wide   the  canvas  fold,  and  deep 
•within  the  wain,  behold 

A  brass-bound,  massive  chest ! 

"  Press  on  !"  shouts  Abram.     "Hold  !  "  they  cry ; 

"  what  treasure  hide  ye  here  ?  " 
The  word  is  stern — the  answer  brief:  "Treasure  ! 

'tis  household  gear ; 
Plain     linen     cloth     and    flaxen   thread."     The 

scribes  deceived  are  wroth  ; 
"Then  weigh  the  chest  —  its  price   shall   be  the 

dues  on  linen  cloth  !  " 

The  face  of  Abram  seemed  to  grieve,  though  joy 

was  in  his  breast, 
As  carefully  his  servants  took  and  weighed  the 

mighty  chest. 
But   one    hath   watched    the    secret    smile ;     he 

cries  —  "  This  stranger  old 
Hath  used  deceit :  no  cloth  is  here  —  this  chest  is 

filled  with  gold  !  " 


THE   TREASURE   OF   ABRAM.  55 

"Nay,  nay,"  wise  Abram  says,  and  smiles,  though 

now  he  hides  dismay  ; 
M  But  time  is  gold :  let  pass  the  chest  —  on  gold 

the  dues  I  pay  !  " 

But  he  who  read  the  subtle  smile  detects  the  se 
cret  fear : 

"Detain  the  chest!  nor  cloth  nor  gold,  but 
precious  silk  is  here  ! " 

Grave     Father    Abram     stands     like    one    who 

kuoweth  well  the  sword 
When  tyros  baffle  thrust  and  guard ;  slow  comes 

the  heedful  word : 
"  I   seek   no   lawless  gain  —  behold !     my  trains 

are  on  their  way, 
Else  would  these  bands  my  servants  break,  and 

show  the  simple  goods  I  take, 
That  silk  ye  call ;  but,  for  time's  sake,  on  silk  the 

dues  I  pay  1 " 

"  He  pays  too  much  I "  the  watcher  cries ;  "  this 
man  is  full  of  guile  ; 


56       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

From  cloth  to  gold  and  gold  to  silk,  to  save  a 

paltry  mile  ! 
This  graybeard  pay  full  silken  dues  on  cloth  for 

slave-bred  girls  ! 
Some  prize  is  here  —  he  shall  not  pass  until  he 

pay  for  pearls  !  " 

Stern  Abram  turned  a  lurid  eye,  as  he  the  man 

would  slay ; 
An  instant,  rose  the  self-command ;  but  thin  the 

lip  and  quick  the  hand, 
As  one  who  makes  a  last  demand :  "  On  pearls 

the  dues  I  pay  ! " 

"He  cannot  pass!"  the  watcher  screamed,  as  to 

the  chest  he  clung ; 
"He  shall  not  pass!      Some   priceless  thing  he 

hideth  here.     Quick  —  workmen  bring  ! 
I  seize  this  treasure  for  the  King  I  " 
Old  Abram  stood  aghast ;  it  seemed  the  knell  of 

doom  had  rung. 


THE    TREASURE    OF    ABRAM.  57 


III. 

Red-eyed  with  greed  and  wonder, 

The  crowd  excited  stand  ; 
The  blows  are  rained  like  thunder 

On  brazen  bolt  and  band  ; 
They  burst  the  massive  hinges, 

They  raise  the  ponderous  lid, 
And  lo  !  the  peerless  treasure 

That  Father  Abram  hid  : 

In  pearls  and  silk  and  jewels  rare, 
Fit  for  a  Pharaoh's  strife  ; 

In  flashing  eyes  and  golden  hair  — 
Sat  Abram's  lovely  wife  ! 


58        SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  NARWHALE. 

THE  STORY  OF  AN  ARCTIC  NIP. 

A  Y,  ay,  I'll  tell  you,  shipmates, 

If  you  care  to  hear  the  tale, 
How  myself  and  the  royal  yard  alone 
Were  left  of  the  old  Narwhale. 

"A  stouter  ship  was  never  launched 

Of  all  the  Clyde-built  whalers  ; 
And  forty  years  of  a  life  at  sea 

Haven't  matched  her  crowd  of  sailors. 
Picked  men  they  were,  all  young  and  strong, 

And  used  to  the  wildest  seas, 
From  Donegal  and  the  Scottish  coast, 

And  the  rugged  Hebrides. 
Such  men  as  women  cling  to,  mates, 

Like  ivy  round  their  lives  : 
And  the  day  we  sailed,  the  quays  were  lined 

With  weeping  mothers  and  wives. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    NARWHALE.  59 

They  cried  and  prayed,  and  we  gave  'em  a  cheer, 

In  the  thoughtless  way  of  men  ; 
God  help  them,  shipmates  —  thirty  years 

They've  waited  and  prayed  since  then. 

"We  sailed  to  the  North,  and  I  mind  it  well, 

The  pity  we  felt,  and  pride 
When  we  sighted  the  cliffs  of  Labrador 

From  the  sea  where  Hudson  died. 
We  talked  of  ships  that  never  came  back, 

And  when  the  great  floes  passed, 
Like  ghosts  in  the  night,  each  moonlit  peak 

Like  a  great  war  frigate's  mast, 
'Twas  said  that  a  ship  was  frozen  up 

In  the  iceberg's  awful  breast, 
The  clear  ice  holding  the  sailor's  face 

As  he  lay  in  his  mortal  rest. 

And  I've  thought  since  then,  when  the  ships  came 
home 

That  sailed  for  the  Franklin  baud, 
A  mistake  was  made  in  the  reckoning 

That  looked  for  the  crews  on  land. 


6O       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

'They're  floating  still,'  I've  said  to  myself, 
*  And  Sir  John  has  found  the  goal ; 

The  Erebus  and  the  Terror,  mates, 
Are  icebergs  up  at  the  Pole  ! ' 

"We  sailed  due  North,  to  Baffin's  Bay, 

And  cruised  through  weeks  of  light ; 
Twas  always  day,  and  we  slept  by  the  bell, 

And  longed  for  the  dear  old  night, 
And  the  blessed  darkness  left  behind, 

Like  a  curtain  round  the  bed ;. 
But  a  month  dragged  on  like  an  afternoon 

With  the  wheeling  sun  overhead. 
We  found  the  whales  were  farther  still, 

The  farther  north  we  sailed  ; 
Along  the  Greenland  glacier  coast, 

The  boldest  might  have  quailed, 
Such  shapes  did  keep  us  company ; 

No  sail  in  all  that  sea, 
But  thick  as  ships  in  Mersey's  tide 

The  bergs  moved  awfully 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    NARWHALE.  6 1 

Within  the  current's  northward  stream ; 

But,  ere  the  long  day's  close, 
We  found  the  whales  and  filled  the  ship 

Amid  the  friendly  floes. 

M  Then  came  a  rest :  the  day  was  blown 

Like  a  cloud  before  the  night ; 
In  the  South  the  sun  went  redly  down — 

In  the  North  rose  another  light, 
Neither  sun  nor  moon,  but  a  shooting  dawn, 

That  silvered  our  lonely  way ; 
It  seemed  we  sailed  in  a  belt  of  gloom, 

Upon  either  side,  a  day. 
The  north  wind  smote  the  sea  to  death ; 

The  pack-ice  closed  us  round  — 
The  Narwhale  stood  in  the  level  fields 

As  fast  as  a  ship  aground. 
A  weary  time  it  was  to  wait, 

And  to  wish  for  spring  to  come, 
With  the  pleasant  breeze  and  the  blessed  sun, 

To  open  the  way  toward  home. 


62       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

*  Spring  came  at  last,  the  ice-fields  groaned 

Like  living  things  in  pain  ; 
They  moaned  and  swayed,  then  rent  amain, 

And  the  Narwhale  sailed  again. 
With  joy  the  dripping  sails  were  loosed 

And  round  the  vessel  swung ; 
To  cheer  the  crew,  full  south  she  drew, 

The  shattered  floes  among. 
We  had  no  books  in  those  old  days 

To  carry  the  friendly  faces  ; 
But  I  think  the  wives  and  lasses  then 

Were  held  in  better  places. 
The  face  of  sweetheart  and  wife  to-day 

Is  locked  in  the  sailor's  chest : 
But   aloft    on   the    yard,    with   the    thought   of 
home, 

The  face  in  the  heart  was  best. 
Well,    well  —  God    knows,    mates,    when    and 
where 

To  take  the  things  he  gave  ; 
We  steered  for  home  —  but  the  chart  was  his, 

And  the  port  ahead  —  the  grave  ! 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    NARWHALE.  63 

"  We  cleared  the  floes  :  through  an  open  sea 

The  Narwhale  south'ard  sailed, 
Till  a  day  came  round  when  the  white  fog  rose, 

And  the  wind  astern  had  failed. 
In  front  of  the  Greenland  glacier  line, 

And  close  to  its  base  were  we  ; 
Through  the  misty  pall  we  could  see  the  wall 

That  beetled  above  the  sea. 
A  fear  like  the  fog  crept  over  our  hearts 

As  we  heard  the  hollow  roar 
Of  the  deep  sea  thrashing  the  cliffs  of  ice 

For  leagues  along  the  shore. 

"The    years    have     come     and    the   years   have 
gone, 

But  it  never  wears  away  — 
The  sense  I  have  of  the  sights  and  sounds 

That  marked  that  woful  day. 
Flung  here  and  there  at  the  ocean's  will, 

As  it  flung  the  broken  floe  — 
What  strength  had  we  'gainst  the  tiger  sea 

That  sports  with  a  sailor's  woe  ? 


64       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

The  lifeless  berg  and  the  lifeful  ship 

Were  the  same  to  the  sullen  wave, 
As  it  swept  them  far  from  ridge  to  ridge, 

Till  at  last  the  Narwhale  drave 
With  a  crashing  rail  on  the  glacier  wall — 

As  sheer  as  the  vessel's  mast  — 
A  crashing  rail  and  a  shivered  yard ; 

But  the  worst,  we  thought,  was  past. 
The  brave  lads  sprang  to  the  fending  work, 

And  the  skipper's  voice  rang  hard  : 
'Aloft  there,  one  with  a  ready  knife  — 

Cut  loose  that  royal  yard  ! ' 
I  sprang  to  the  rigging,  young  I  was, 

And  proud  to  be  first  to  dare  : 
The  yard  swung  free,  and  I  turned  to  gaze 
Toward  the  open  sea,  o'er  the  field  of  haze, 
And  my  heart  grew  cold,  as  if  frozen  through, 
At  the  moving  shape  that  met  my  view  — 

0  Christ !  what  a  sight  was  there  ! 

"Above  the  fog,  as  I  hugged  the  yard, 

1  saw  that  an  iceberg  lay  — 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    NARWHALE.  6$ 

A  berg  like  a  mountain,  closing  fast  — 

Not  a  cable's  length  away  ! 
I  could  not  see  through  the  sheet  of  mist 

That  covered  all  below, 
But  I  heard  the  cheery  voices  still, 

And  I  screamed  to  let  them  know. 
The  cry  went  down,  and  the  skipper  hailed, 

But  before  the  word  could  come 
It  died  in  his  throat  —  and  I  knew  they  saw 

The  shape  of  the  closing  doom  ! 

"No  sound  but  that  —  but  the  hail  that  died 

Came  up  through  the  mist  to  me  ; 
Thank  God,  it  covered  the  ship  like  a  veil, 

And  I  was  not  forced  to  see  — 
But  I  heard  it,  mates  :  O,  I  heard  the  rush, 

1  And  the  timbers  rend  and  rive, 
As  the  yard  I  clung  to  swayed  and  fell : 

1  lay  on  the  ice,  alive  ! 

Alive  !  O  God  of  mercy  !  ship  and  crew  and  sea 

were  gone ! 

The  hummocked  ice  and  the  broken  yard, 
And  a  kneeling  man  —  alone  ! 


66       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

"  A  kneeling  man  on  a  frozen  hill, 

The  sounds  of  life  in  the  air  — 
All  death  and  ice  —  and  a  minute  before 

The  sea  and  the  ship  were  there  ! 
I  could  not  think  they  were  dead  and  gone, 

And  I  listened  for  sound  or  word  : 
But  the  deep  sea  roar  on  the  desolate  shore 

Was  the  only  sound  I  heard. 

0  mates,  I  had  no  heart  to  thank 
The  Lord  for  the  life  He  gave  ; 

1  spread  my  arms  on  the  ice  and  cried 

Aloud  on  my  shipmates'  grave. 
The  brave   strong  lads,   with  their  strength    all 
vain, 

I  called  them  name  by  name  ; 
And  it  seemed  to  me  from  the  dying  hearts 

A  message  upward  came  — 
Ay,  mates,  a  message,  up  through  the  ice 

From  every  sailor's  breast : 
'  Go  tell  our  mothers  and  wives  at  home 

To  pray  for  us  here  at  rest.' 


DYING   IN   HARNESS.  6/ 

"Yes,  that's  what  it  means  ;  'tis  a  little  word; 

But,  mates,  the  strongest  ship 
That  ever  was  built  is  a  baby's  toy 

When  it  copes  with  an  Arctic  Nip." 


DYING  IN  HARNESS. 

/^VNLY  a  fallen  horse,  stretched  out  there  on 

the  road, 
Stretched  in  the  broken  shafts,  and  crushed  by 

the  heavy  load  ; 
Only  a  fallen  horse,  and  a  circle  of  wondering 

eyes 
Watching  the  'frighted  teamster  goading  the  beast 

to  rise. 

Hold  !   for  his  toil  is  over  —  no  more  labor  for 

him; 
See  the  poor  neck  outstretched,  and  the  patient 

eyes  grow  dim ; 


68       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

See  on  the  friendly  stones  how  peacefully  rests 

the  head  — 
Thinking,  if  dumb  beasts  think,  how  good  it  is  to 

be  dead ; 
After   the   weary  journey,  how    restful   it  is  to 

lie 
With   the   broken    shafts  and  the    cruel   load  — 

•waiting  only  to  die. 

Watchers,  he  died  in  harness  —  died  in  the  shafts 

and  straps  — 
Fell,  and   the   burden   killed   him :    one    of   the 

day's  mishaps  — 
One   of  the  passing  wonders  marking  the   city 

road  — 
A  toiler  dying  in  harness,  heedless  of  call   or 

goad. 

Passers,  crowding    the    pathway,   staying   your 

steps  awhile, 
What  is  the  symbol?     Only  death — why  should 

we  cease  to  smile 


DYING   IN    HARNESS.  69 

At  death    for  a   beast  of  "burden?     Oil,  through 

the  busy  street 
That  is  ever  and  ever  echoing  the  tread  of  the 

hurrying  feet. 

What  was  the  sign  ?  A  symbol  to  touch  the  tire 
less  will  ? 

Does  He  who  taught  in  parables  speak  in  par 
ables  still? 

The  seed  on  the  rock  is  wasted  —  on  heedless 
hearts  of  men, 

That  gather  and  sow  and  grasp  and  lose  —  laboi 
and  sleep  —  and  then  — 

Then  for  the  prize! A  crowd  in  the  street 

of  ever-echoing  tread  — 

The  toiler,  crushed  by  the  heavy  load,  is  there  in 
his  harness  —  dead  ! 


7<3       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 


GOLU. 

ONCE  I  had  a  little  sweetheart 
In  the  land  of  the  Malay,  — 
Such  a  little  yellow  sweetheart ! 
Warm  and  peerless  as  the  day 
Of  her  own  dear  sunny  island, 
Keimah,  in  the  far,  far  East, 
Where  the  mango  and  banana 
Made  us  many  a  merry  feast. 

Such  a  little  copper  sweetheart 

Was  my  Golu,  plump  and  round, 
With  her  hair  all  blue-black  streaming 

O'er  her  to  the  very  ground. 
Soft  and  clear  as  dew-drop  clinging 

To  a  grass  blade  was  her  eye  ; 
For  the  heart  below  was  purer 

Than  the  hill-stream  whispering  by. 


GOLU.  71 

Costly  robes  were  not  for  Golu : 

No  more  raiment  did  she  need 
Than  the  milky  budding  breadfruit, 

Or  the  lily  of  the  mead ; 
And  she  was  my  little  sweetheart 

Many  a  sunny  summer  day, 
When  we  ate  the  fragrant  guavas, 

In  the  land  of  the  Malay. 

Life  was  laughing  then.     Ah !  Golo, 

Do  you  think  of  that  old  time, 
And  of  all  the  tales  I  told  you 

Of  my  colder  Western  clime  ? 
Do  you  think  how  happy  were  we 

When  we  sailed  to  strip  the  paliu: 
And  we  made  a  latteen  arbor 

Of  the  boat-sail  in  the  calm  ? 

They  may  call  you  semi-savage, 

Golu !     I  cannot  forget 
How  I  poised  my  little  sweetheart 

Like  a  copper  statuette. 


J2       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Now  my  path  lies  through  the  cities ; 

But  they  cannot  drive  away 
My  sweet  dreams  of  little  Golu 

And  the  land  of  the  Malay. 


UNDER  THE  RIVER 

/""^LEAR  and  bright,  from  the  snowy  height, 

The  joyous  stream  to  the  plain  descended  : 
Rich  sands  of  gold  were  washed  and  rolled 
To  the  turbid  marsh  where  its  pure  life  ended. 

From  stainless  snow  to  the  moor  below 

The  heart  like  the   brook   has  a  waning  mis 
sion  : 

The  buried  dream  in  life's  sluggish  stream 
Is  the  golden  sand  of  our  young  ambition. 


HIDDEN    SINS.  73 


HIDDEN    SINS. 

TI^OR  every  sin  that  comes  before  the  light, 

And  leaves  an  outward  blemish  on  the  soul, 
How  many,  darker,  cower  out  of  sight, 

And  burrow,  blind  and  silent,  like  the  mole. 
And  like  the  mole,  too,  with  its  busy  feet 

That  dig  and  dig  a  never-ending  cave, 
Our  hidden  sins  gnaw  through  the  soul,  and  meet 

And  feast  upon  each  other  in  its  grave. 

A  buried  sin  is  like  a  covered  sore 

That  spreads  and  festers  'neath  a  painted  face ; 
And  no  man's  art  can  heal  it  evermore, 

But  only  His —  the  Surgeon's  —  promised  grace. 
Who  hides  a  sin  is  like  the  hunter  who 

Once  warmed  a  frozen  adder  with  his  breath, 
And  when  he  placed  it  near  his  heart  it  flew 

With  poisoned  fangs  and  stung  that  heart  to  death. 


74       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

A  sculptor  once  a  granite  statue  made, 

One-sided  only,  just  to  fit  its  place : 
The  unseen  side  was  monstrous ;  so  men  shade 

Their  evil  acts  behind  a  smiling  face. 
O  blind !  O  foolish !  thus  our  sins  to  hide, 

And  force  our  pleading  hearts  the  gall  to  sip ; 
O  cowards !  who  must  eat  the  myrrh,  that  Pride 

May  smile  like  Virtue  with  a  lying  lip. 

A  sin  admitted  is  nigh  half  atoned ; 

And  while  the  fault  is  red  and  freshly  done, 
If  we  but  drop  our  eyes  and  think,  —  'tis  owned,  - 

'Tis  half  forgiven,  half  the  crown  is  won. 
But  if  we  heedless  let  it  reek  and  rot, 

Then  pile  a  mountain  on  its  grave,  and  turn, 
With  smiles  to  all  the  world,  —  that  tainted  spot 

Beneath  the  mound  will  never  cease  to  burn. 


UNSPOKEN  -WORDS.  7$ 


UNSPOKEN  WORDS. 

* 

'"THHE  kindly  words  that  rise  within  the  heart, 

And  thrill  it  with  their  sympathetic  tone, 
But  die  ere  spoken,  fail  to  play  their  part, 

And  claim  a  merit  that  is  not  their  own. 
The  kindly  word  unspoken  is  a  sin,  — 

A  sin  that  wraps  itself  in  purest  guise, 
And  tells  the  heart  that,  doubting,  looks  within, 

That  not  in  speech,  but  thought,  the  virtue  lies. 

But  'tis  not  so :  another  heart  may  thirst 

For  that  kind  word,  as  Hagar  hi  the  wild  — 
Poor  banished  Hagar !  —  prayed  a  well  might  burst 

From  out  the  sand  to  save  her  parching  child. 
And  loving  eyes  that  cannot  see  the  mind 

Will  watch  the  expected  movement  of  the  lip : 
Ah !  can  ye  let  its  cutting  silence  wind 

Around  that  heart,  and  scathe  it  like  a  whip  ? 


76       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Unspoken  words,  like  treasures  in  the  mine, 

Are  valueless  until  we  give  them  birth : 
Like  unfound  gold  their  hidden  beauties  shine, 

Which  God  has  made  to  bless  and  gild  the  earth. 
How  sad  'twould  be  to  see  a  master's  hand 

Strike  glorious  notes  upon  a  voiceless  lute ! 
But  oh !  what  pain  when,  at  God's  own  command, 

A  heart-string  thrills  with  kindness,  but  is  mute  ! 

Then  hide  it  not,  the  music  of  the  soul, 

Dear  sympathy,  expressed  with  kindly  voice, 
But  let  it  like  a  shining  river  roll 

To  deserts  dry,  —  to  hearts  that  would  rejoice. 
Oh !  let  the  symphony  of  kindly  words 

Sound  for  the  poor,  the  friendless,  and  the  weak ; 
And  He  will  bless  you,  —  He  who  struck  these 
chords 

Will  strike  another  when  in  turn  you  seek. 


THE    POISON-FLOWER.  77 


THE    POISON-FLOWER. 

TN  the  evergreen  shade  of  an  Austral  wood, 
Where  the  long  branches  laced  above, 
Through  which  all  day  it  seemed 
The  sweet  sunbeams  down-gleamed 
Like  the  rays  of  a  young  mother's  love, 
When  she  hides  her  glad  face  with  her  hands  and 

peeps 

At  the  youngling  that  crows  on  her  knee : 
'Neath  such  ray-shivered  shade, 
In  a  banksia  glade, 
Was  this  flower  first  shown  to  me. 

A  rich  pansy  it  was,  with  a  small  white  lip 
And  a  wonderful  purple  hood ; 
And  your  eye  caught  the  sheen 
Of  its  leaves,  parrot-green, 
Down  the  dim  gothic  aisles  of  the  wood. 
And  its  foliage  rich  on  the  moistureless  sand 


78       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Made  you  long  for  its  odorous  breath ; 

But  ah !  'twas  to  take 

To  your  bosom  a  snake, 
For  its  pestilent  fragrance  was  death. 

And  I  saw  it  again,  in  a  far  northern  land,  — 
Not  a  pansy,  not  purple  and  white ; 

Yet  in  beauteous  guise 

Did  this  poison-plant  rise, 
Fair  and  fatal  again  to  my  sight. 
And  men  longed  for  her  kiss  and  her  odorous  breath 
When  no  friend  was  beside  them  to  tell 

That  to  kiss  was  to  die, 

That  her  truth  was  a  lie, 
And  her  beauty  a  soul-killing  spell. 


MY    MOTHER  S   MEMORY.  79 


MY  MOTHER'S  MEMORY. 

*  I  "HERE  is  one  bright  star  in  heaven 

Ever  shining  in  my  night ; 
God  to  me  one  guide  has  given, 

Like  the  sailor's  beacon-light, 
Set  on  every  shoal  and  danger, 

Sending  out  its  warning  ray 
To  the  home-bound  weary  stranger 

Looking  for  the  land-locked  bay. 

In  my  farthest,  wildest  wanderings 
I  have  turned  me  to  that  love, 

As  a  diver,  'neath  the  water, 
Turns  to  watch  the  light  above. 


8O       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 


THE  OLD  SCHOOL  CLOCK 

/"\LD  memories  rush  o'er  m y  mind  just  now 

Of  faces  and  friends  of  the  past ; 
Of  that  happy  time  when  life's  dream  was  all  bright 

Ere  the  clear  sky  of  youth  was  o'ercast. 
Very  dear  are  those  mem'ries,  —  they  've  clung 

round  my  heart, 

And  bravely  withstood  Time's  rude  shock ; 
But  not  one  is  more  hallowed  or  dear  to  me  now 
Than  the  face  of  the  old  school  clock. 

'Twas  a  quaint  old  clock  with  a  quaint  old  face, 

And  great  iron  weights  and  chain ; 
It  stopped  when  it  liked,  and  before  it  struck 

It  creaked  as  if  'twere  in  pain. 


THE    OLD    SCHOOL    CLOCK.  8 1 

It  had  seen  many  years,  and  it  seemed  to  say, 

"  I  'm  one  of  the  real  old  stock," 
To  the  youthful  fry,  who  with  reverence  looked 

On  the  face  of  the  old  school  clock. 

How  many  a  time  have  I  labored  to  sketch 

That  yellow  and  tune-honored  face, 
With  its  basket  of  flowers,  its  figures  and  hands, 

And  the  weights  and  the  chains  in  their  place  ! 
How  oft  have  I  gazed  with  admiring  eye, 

As  I  sat  on  the  wooden  block, 
And  pondered  and  guessed  at  the  wonderful  things 

That  were  inside  that  old  school  clock  ! 

What  a  terrible  frown  did  the  old  clock  wear 

To  the  truant,  who  timidly  cast 
An  anxious  eye  on  those  merciless  hands, 

That  for  him  had  been  moving  too  fast ! 
But  its  frown  soon  changed ;  for  it  loved  to  smile 

On  the  thoughtless,  noisy  flock, 
And  it  creaked  and  whirred  and  struck  with  glee,  — 

Did  that  genial,  good-humored  old  clock. 


82       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Well,  years  had  passed,  and  my  mind  was  filled 

With  the  world,  its  cares  and  ways, 
When  again  I  stood  in  that  little  school 

Where  I  passed  my  boyhood's  days. 
My  old  friend  was  gone!  and  there  hung  a  thing 

That  my  sorrow  seemed  to  mock, 
As  I  gazed  with  a  tear  and  a  softened  heart 

At  a  new-fashioned  Yankee  clock. 

'Twas  a  gaudy  thing  with  bright  painted  sides, 

And  it  looked  with  insolent  stare 
On  the  desks  and  the  seats  and  on  every  thing  old  ; 

And  I  thought  of  the  friendly  air 
Of  the  -face  that  I  missed,  with  its  weights  and 
chains,  — 

All  gone  to  the  auctioneer's  block : 
'Tis  a  thing  of  the  past,  —  never  more  shall  I  see 

But  hi  memory  that  old  school  clock. 

'Tis  the  way  of  the  world :  old  friends  pass  away, 

And  fresh  faces  arise  in  their  stead ; 
But  still  'mid  the  din  and  the  bustle  of  life 

We  cherish  fond  thoughts  of  the  dead. 


MARY.  83 

Yes,    dearly    those   memories   cling    round    my 
heart, 

And  bravely  withstand  Time's  rude  shock ; 
But  not  one  is  more  dear  or  more  hallowed  to  me 

Than  the  face  of  that  old  school  clock. 


MARY. 

THvEAR  honored  name,  beloved  for  human  ties, 
But  loved  and  honored  first  that  One  was 

given 
In  living  proof  to  erring  mortal  eyes 

That  our  poor  earth  is  near  akin  to  heaven. 

Sweet  word  of  dual  meaning :  one  of  grace, 
And  born  of  our  kind  advocate  above  ; 

And  one  by  memory  linked  to  that  dear  face 
That   blessed  my  childhood  with   its  mother- 
love, 


84       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

And  taught  me  first  the  simple  prayer,  "To  thee, 
Poor  banished  sons  of  Eve,  we  send  our  cries." 

Through  mist  of  years,  those  words  recall  to  me 
A  childish  face  upturned  to  loving  eyes. 

And  yet  to  some  the  name  of  Mary  bears 
No  special  meaning  and  no  gracious  power ; 

In  that  dear  word  they  seek  for  hidden  snares, 
As  wasps  find  poison  in  the  sweetest  flower. 

But  faithful  hearts  can  see,  o'er  doubts  and  fears, 
The  Virgin  link  that  binds  the  Lord  to  earth  ; 

Which  to  the  upturned  trusting  face  appears 
A  more  than  angel,  though  of  human  birth. 

The  sweet-faced  moon  reflects  on  cheerless  night 
The  rays  of  hidden  sun  to  rise  to-morrow  ; 

So  unseen  God  still  lets  His  promised  light, 
Through  holy  Mary,  shine  upon  our  sorrow. 


A    LEGEND    OF    THE    BLESSED    VIRGIN.  85 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  BLESSED  VIRGIN. 

'THHE  day  of  Joseph's  marriage  unto  Mary, 

In  thoughtful  mood  he  said  unto  his  wife, 
"  Behold,  I  go  into  a  far-off  country 

To  labor  for  thee,  and  to  make  thy  life 
And  home  all  sweet  and  peaceful."  And  the  Virgin 

Unquestioning  beheld  her  spouse  depart : 
Then  lived  she  many  days  of  musing  gladness, 
Not  knowing  that  God's  hand  was  round  her 
heart. 

And  dreaming  thus  one  day  within  her  chamber, 
She  wept  with  speechless  bliss,  when  lo !  the  face 

Of  white-winged  angel  Gabriel  rose  before  her, 
And  bowing  spoke,  "  Hail !  Mary,  full  of  grace, 


86       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

The  Lord  is  with  thee,  and  among  the  nations 
Forever  blessed  is  thy  chosen  name." 

The  angel  vanished,  and  the  Lord's  high  Presence 
With  untold  glory  to  the  Virgin  came. 

A  season  passed  of  joy  unknown  to  mortals, 

When  Joseph  came  with  what  his  toil  had  won, 
And  broke  the  brooding  ecstasy  of  Mary, 

Whose  soul  was  ever  with  her  promised  Son. 
But  nature's  jealous  fears  encircled  Joseph, 

And  round  his  heart  in  darkening  doubts  held 

sway. 
He  looked  upon  his  spouse  cold-eyed,  and  pondered 

How  he  could  put  her  from  his  sight  away. 

And  once,  when  moody  thus  within  his  garden, 

The  gentle  girl  besought  for  some  ripe  fruit 
That  hung  beyond  her  reach,  the  old  man  an 
swered, 

With  face  averted,  harshly  to  her  suit : 
"  I  will  not  serve  thee,  woman !    Thou  hast  wronged 
me: 


A   LEGEND    OF    THE    DLESSED    VIRGIN.  8/ 

I  heed  no  more  thy  words  and  actions  mild ; 
If  fruit  thou  wantest,  thou  canst  henceforth  ask  it 
From  him,  the  father  of  thy  unborn  child  !  " 

But  ere  the  words  had  root  within  her  hearing, 

The  Virgin's  face  was  glorified  anew  i 
And  Joseph,  turning,  sank  within  her  presence, 

And  knew  indeed  his  wondrous  dreams  were 

true. 
For  there  before  the  sandalled  feet  of  Mary 

The  kingly  tree  had  bowed  its  top,  and  she 
Had  pulled  and  eaten  from  its  prostrate  branches; 

As  if  unconscious  of  the  mystery. 


88       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 


THE  LOSS  OF  THE  EMIGRANTS.  * 


months  and  years,  with  penury  and  want 
And  heart-sore  envy  did  they  dare  to  cope  ; 
And  mite  by  mite  was  saved  from  earnings  scant, 
To  buy,  some  future  day,  the  God-sent  hope. 

They  trod  the  crowded  streets  of  hoary  towns, 
Or  tilled  from  year  to  year  the  wearied  fields, 

And  in  the  shadow  of  the  golden  crowns 

They  gasped  for  sunshine  and  the  health  it  yields. 

They  turned  from  homes  all  cheerless,  child  and 
man, 

With  kindly  feelings  only  for  the  soil, 
And  for  the  kindred  faces,  pinched  and  wan, 

That  prayed,  and  stayed,  unwilling,  at  their  toil. 

They  lifted  up  their  faces  to  the  Lord, 
And  read  His  answer  in  the  westering  sun 

That  called  them  ever  as  a  shining  word, 
And  beckoned  seaward  as  the  rivers  run. 

*  The  steamer  Atlantic  was  wrecked  near  Halifax,  N.S.,  April  1st,  1873, 
and  560  lives  lost. 


THE   LOSS   OF  THE   EMIGRANTS.  89 

They  looked   their   last,   wet-eyed,    on    Swedish 
hills, 

On  German  villages  and  English  dales ; 
Like  brooks  that  grow  from  many  mountain  rills 

The  peasant-stream  flowed  out  from  Irish  vales. 

Their  grief  at  parting  was  not  all  a  grief, 
But  blended  sweetly  with  the  joy  to  come, 

When  from  full  store  they  spared  the  rich  relief 
To  gladden  all  the  dear  ones  left  at  home. 

"  We  thank  thee,  God  I  "  they  cried  ;  "  the  cruel 

gate 
That  barred  our  lives  has  swung  beneath  Thy 

hand ; 
Behind  our  ship  now  frowns  the  cruel  fate, 

Before  her  smiles  the  teeming  Promised  Land  !  " 

Alas !  when  shown  in  mercy  or  in  wrath, 
How  weak  we  are  to  read  God's  awful  lore  I 

His  breath  protected  on  the  stormy  path, 

And   dashed    them    lifeless    on    the    promised 
shore  ! 


QO       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

His  hand  sustained  them  in  the  parting  woe, 
And  gave  bright  vision  to  the  heart  of  each ; 

His  waters  bore  them  where  they  wished  to  go, 
Then  swept  them  seaward  from  the  very  beach  ! 

Their  home  is  reached,  their  fetters  now  are  riven, 
Their  humble  toil  is  o'er,  —  their  rest  has  come  ; 

A  land  was  promised  and  a  land  is  given,  — 
But,  oh  I   God  help  the  waiting  ones  at  home  ! 


WITHERED    SNOWDROPS  01 


WITHERED    SNOWDROPS. 

'~pvHEY  came  in  the  early  spring-days, 
With  the  first  refreshing  showers ; 
And  I  watched  the  growing  Leauty 
Of  the  little  drooping  flowers. 

They  had  no  bright  hues  to  charm  me, 

No  gay  painting  to  allure ; 
But  they  made  me  think  of  angels, 

They  were  all  so  white  and  pure. 

In  the  early  morns  I  saw  them, 
Dew-drops  clinging  to  each  bell, 

And  the  first  glad  sunbeam  hasting 
Just  to  kiss  them  ere  they  fell. 

Daily  grew  their  spotless  beauty ; 
But  I  feared  when  chill  winds  blew 


SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

They  were  all  too  frail  and  tender,  — 
And  alas !  my  fears  were  true. 

One  glad  morn  I  went  to  see  them 

While  the  bright  drops  gemmed  their  snow, 
And  one  angel  flower  was  withered, 

Its  fair  petals  drooping  low. 

Its  white  sister's  tears  fell  ou  it, 

And  the  sunbeam  sadly  shone  ; 
For  its  innocence  was  withered, 

And  its  purity  was  gone. 

Still  I  left  it  there :  I  could  not 

Tear  it  rudely  from  its  place  ; 
It  might  rise  again,  and  summer 

Might  restore  its  vanished  grace. 

But  my  hopes  grew  weaker,  weaker, 
And  my  heart  with  grief  was  pained 

When  I  knew  it  must  be  severed 
From  the  innocence  it  stained. 


WITHERED    SNOWDROPS.  Q3 

I  must  take  it  from  the  pure  ones : 
Henceforth  they  must  live  apart. 

But  I  could  not  cut  my  flow'ret  — 
My  lost  angel  —  from  my  heart. 

Oft  I  think  of  that  dead  snowdrop, 
Think  with  sorrow,  when  I  meet, 

Day  by  day,  the  poor  lost  flowers,  — 
Sullied  snowdrops  of  the  street. 

They  were  pure  once,  loved  and  loving, 
And  there  still  lives  good  within. 

Ah !  speak  gently  to  them :  harsh  words 
Will  not  lead  them  from  their  sin. 

The  are  not  like  withered  flowers 

That  can  never  bloom  again :  1 

They  can  rise,  bright  angel  snowdrops, 
Purified  from  every  stain. 


94       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 


THE  WAIL  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


CHICAGO,  OCTOBER  9,  1871. 

AUNT  in  the  midst  of  the  prairie, 

She  who  was  once  so  fair ; 
Charred  and  rent  are  her  garments, 
Heavy  and  dark  like  cerements ; 

Silent,  but  round  her  the  air 
Plaintively  wails,  "  Miserere  ! " 

i 

Proud  like  a  beautiful  maiden, 

Art-like  from  forehead  to  feet, 
Was  she  till  pressed  like  a  leman 
Close  to  the  breast  of  the  demon, 

Lusting  for  one  so  sweet, 
So  were  her  shoulders  laden. 


THE  WAIL   OF   TWO   CITIES.  95 

Friends  she  had,  rich  in  her  treasures  : 
Shall  the  old  taunt  be  true,  — 

Fallen,  they  turn  their  cold  faces, 

Seeking  new  wealth-gilded  places, 
Saying  we  never  knew 

Aught  of  her  smiles  or  her  pleasures  ? 

Silent  she  stands  on  the  prairie, 

Wrapped  in  her  fire-scathed  sheet : 

Around  her,  thank  God !  is  the  Nation, 

"Weeping  for  her  desolation, 

Pouring  its  gold  at  her  feet, 

Answering  her  "  Miserere  ! " 


BOSTON,   NOVEMBER  9,  1872. 

O  broad-breasted  Queen  among  Nations ! 

O  Mother,  so  strong  in  thy  youth ! 
Has  the  Lord  looked  upon  thee  in  ire, 
And  willed  thou  be  chastened  by  fire, 

Without  any  ruth  ? 


96       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Has  the  Merciful  tired  of  His  mercy, 

And  turned  from  thy  sinning  in  wrath, 

That  the  world  with  raised  hands  sees  and  pities 

Thy  desolate  daughters,  thy  cities, 
Despoiled  on  their  path  ? 

One  year  since  thy  youngest  was  stricken : 

Thy  eldest  lies  stricken  to-day. 
Ah !  God,  was  thy  wrath  without  pity, 
To  tear  the  strong  heart  from  our  city, 

And  cast  it  away  ? 

O  Father!  forgive  us  our  doubting  ; 

The  stain  from  our  weak  souls  efface  ; 
Thou  rebukest,  we  know,  but  to  chasten ; 
Thy  hand  has  but  fallen  to  hasten 

Return  to  thy  grace. 

Let  us  rise  purified  from  our  ashes 

As  sinners  have  risen  who  grieved ; 

Let  us  show  that  twice-sent  desolation 

On  every  true  heart  in  the  nation 
Has  conquest  achieved. 


THE   FISHERMEN    OF   WEXFORD.  97 


THE  FISHERMEN  OF  WEXFORD. 

r  I  "HERE  is  an  old  tradition  sacred  held  in  Wex- 

ford  town, 
That  says :  "  Upon  St.  Martin's  eve  no  net  shall  be 

let  down ; 

No  fishermen  of  Wexford  shall,  upon  that  holy  day, 
Set  sail  or  cast  a  line  within  the  scope  of  Wexford 

Bay." 
The  tongue  that  framed  the  order,  or  the  time,  no 

one  could  tell; 
And  no  one  ever  questioned,  but  the  people  kept  it 

well. 
And  never  in  man's  memory  was  fisher  known  to 

leave 
The  little  town  of  Wexford  on  the  good  St.  Martin's 

Eve. 


98       SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Alas !    alas  for  Wexford  I   once   upon   that   holy 

day 
Came  a  wondrous  shoal  of  herring  to  the  waters  of 

the  Bay. 
The  fishers  and  their  families  stood  out  upon  the 

beach, 
And  all  day  watched  with  wistful  eyes  the  wealth 

they  might  not  reach. 
Such  shoal  was  never  seen  before,  and  keen  regrets 

went  round  — 
Alas !   alas  for  Wexford !     Hark  I    what   is  that 

grating  sound? 
The  boats'  keels  on  the  shingle !     Mothers !  wives  ! 

ye  well  may  grieve,  — 
The  fishermen  of  Wexford  mean  to  sail  on  Martin's 

Eve! 

"  Oh,  stay  ye  !  "  cried  the  women  wild.     "  Stay !  " 

cried  the  men  white-haired ; 
"And  dare  ye  not  to  do  this  thing  your  fathers 

never  dared. 


THE    FISHERMEN    OF    WEXFORD.  99 

No  man  can  thrive  who  tempts  the  Lord ! " 
"  Away ! "  they  cried :  "  the  Lord 

Ne'er  sent  a  shoal  of  fish  but  as  a  fisherman's  re 
ward." 

And  scoffingly  they  said,  "To-night  our  nets  shall 
sweep  the  Bay, 

And  take  the  Saint  who  guards  it,  should  he  come 
across  our  way  I  " 

The  keels  have  touched  the  water,  and  the  crews 
are  in  each  boat ; 

And  on  St.  Martin's  Eve  the  Wexford  fishers  are 
afloat  I 

The  moon  is  shining  coldly  on  the  sea  and  on  the 

land, 
On  dark  faces  in  the  fishing-fleet  and  pale  ones  on 

the  strand, 
As  seaward  go  the  daring  boats,  and  heavenward 

the  cries 
Of  kneeling  wives  and  mothers  with  uplifted  hands 

and  eyes. 


TOO      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

"  O  Holy  Virgin !  be  their  guard ! "  the  weeping 
women  cried; 

The  old  men,  sad  and  silent,  watched  the  boats 
cleave  through  the  tide, 

As  past  the  farthest  headland,  past  the  lighthouse, 
in  aline 

The  fishing-fleet  went  seaward  through  the  phos 
phor-lighted  brine. 

Oh,  pray,  ye  wives  and  mothers !  All  your  prayers 
they  sorely  need 

To  save  them  from  the  wrath  they  've  roused  by 
their  rebellious  greed. 

Oh !  white-haired  men  and  little  babes,  and  weep 
ing  sweethearts,  pray 

To  God  to  spare  the  fishermen  to-night  in  Wexford 
Bay! 

The  boats  have  reached  good  offing,  and,  as  out  the 

nets  are  thrown, 
The  hearts  ashore  are  chilled  to  hear  the  soughing 

sea  wind's  moan: 


THE   FISHERMEN   OF   WEXFORD.  IOI 

Like  to  a  human  heart  that  loved,  and  hoped  for 

some  return, 
To  find  at  last  but  hatred,  so  the  sea-wind  seemed 

to  mourn. 
But  ah !  the  Wexford   fishermen !   their  nets  did 

scarcely  sink 
One  inch  below  the  foam,  when,  lol   the  daring 

boatmen  shrink 
With  sudden  awe  and  whitened  lips  and  glaring 

eyes  agape, 
For  breast-high,  threatening,  from  the  sea  uprose  a 

Human  Shape  I 

Beyond  them,  — in  the  moonlight,  — hand  upraised 

and  awful  mien, 
Waving  back  and  pointing  landwards,  breast-high 

in  the  sea  'twas  seen. 
Thrice  it  waved  and  thrice  it  pointed,  —  then,  with 

clenched  hand  upraised, 
The  awful  shape  went  down  before  the  fishers  as 

they  gazed ! 


IO2      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Gleaming  whitely  through  the  water,  fathoms  deep 
they  saw  its  frown,  — 

They  saw  its  white  hand  clenched  above  it,  —  sink 
ing  slowly  down ! 

And  then  there  was  a  rushing  'neath  the  boats,  and 
every  soul 

Was  thrilled  with  greed:  they  knew  it  was  the 
seaward-going  shoal ! 

Defying  the  dread  warning,  every  face  was  sternly 
set, 

And  wildly  did  they  ply  the  oar,  and  wildly  haul 
the  net. 

But  two  boats'  crews  obeyed  the  sign,  —  God-fearing 
men  were  they,  — 

They  cut  their  lines  and  left  their  nets,  and  home 
ward  sped  away; 

But  darkly  rising  sternwards  did  God's  wrath  in 
tempest  sweep, 

And  they,  of  all  the  fishermen,  that  night  escaped 
the  deep. 


THE    FISHERMEN    OF    WEXFORD.  1 03 

Oh,  wives  and  mothers,  sweethearts,  sires  I   well 

might  ye  mourn  next  day; 
For  seventy  fishers'  corpses  strewed  the  shores  of 

Wexford  Bay  1 


IO4      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE  GAEL. 

ST.  PATRICK'S  DAY. 
I. 

"VT  7HAT  a  union  of  hearts  is  the  love  of  a  mother 

When  races  of  men  in  her  name  unite  ! 
For  love  of  Old  Erin,  and  love  of  each  other, 

The  boards  of  the  Gael  are  full  to-night ! 
Their  millions  of  men  have  one  toast  and  one 

topic  — 

Their  feuds   laid   aside   and   their   envies    re 
moved  ; 
From  the  pines  of  the  Pole  to  the  palms  of  the 

Tropic, 
They  drink :  "  The  dear  Land  we  have  prayed 

for  and  loved  ! " 
They  are  One  by  the  bond  of  a  time-honored 

fashion ; 

Though   strangers  may  see  but  the  lights  of 
their  feast, 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE  GAEL.         1 05 

Beneath  lies  the  symbol  of  faith  and  of  passion 
Alike  of  the  Pagan  and  Christian  priest ! 


n. 


When  native  laws  by  native  kings 

At  Tara  were  decreed, 
The  grand  old  Gheber  worship 

Was  the  form  of  Erin's  creed. 
The  Sun,  Life-Giver,  was  God  on  high ; 

Men  worshipped  the  Power  they  saw  ; 
And  they  kept  the  faith  as  the  ages  rolled 

By  the  solemn  Beltane  law. 
Each  year,  on  the  Holy  Day,  was  quenched 

The  household  fires  of  the  land ; 
And  the  Druid  priest,  at  the  midnight  hour, 

Brought  forth  the  flaming  brand, — 
The  living  spark  for  the  Nation's  hearths, — 

From  the  Monarch's  hand  it  came, 
Whose  fire  at  Tara  spread  the  sign  — 

And  the  people  were  One  by  the  flame ! 


IO6      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

And  Baal  was  God  !  till  Patrick  came, 

By  the  Holy  Name  inspired  ; 
Oil  the  Beltane  uight,  in  great  Tara's  sight, 

His  pile  at  Slaue  was  fired. 
And  the  deed  that  was  death  was  the  Nation's  life, 

And  the  doom  of  the  Pagan  bane ; 
For  Erin  still  keeps  Beltane  night, 

But  lights  her  lamp  at  Slaue  ! 

Though  fourteen  centuries  pile  their  dust 

On  the  mound  of  the  Druid's  grave, 
TO-XIGHT  is  THE  BELTANE  !     Bright  the  fire 

That  Holy  Patrick  gave  ! 
TO-NIGHT  is  THE  BELTANE  !     Let  him  heed 

Who  studieth  creed  and  race  : 
Old  times  and  gods  are  dead,  and  we 

Are  far  from  the  ancient  place  ; 
The  waves  of  centuries,  war,  and  waste, 

Of  famine,  gallows,  and  gaol, 
Have  swept  our  land ;  but  the  world  to-night 

Sees  the  Beltane  Fire  of  the  Gael ! 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE  GAEL.         IC/ 
III. 

O  land  of  sad  fate  !  like  a  desolate  queen, 

Who  remembers  in  sorrow  the  crown  of  her 

g]ory, 

The  love  of  thy  children  not  strangely  is  seen  — 
For    humanity    weeps    at    thy    heart-touching 

story. 

Strong  heart  in  affliction  !  that  draweth  thy  foes 
'Till  they  love  thee  more  dear  than  thine  own 

generation  : 
Thy    strength    is    increased    as   thy   life-current 

flows, — 

"What  were  death  to  another  is  Ireland's  salva 
tion  ! 

God  scatters  her  sons  like  the  seed  on  the  lea, 
And  they  root  where  they  fall,  be  it  mountain 

or  furrow  ; 

They  come  to  remain  and  remember ;  and  she 
In  their  growth  will  rejoice  in   a  blissful  to 
morrow  ! 


IO8      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

They  sing  in  strange  lands  the  sweet  songs  of 

their  home, 

Their  emerald  Zion  enthroned  in  the  billows ; 
To  work,  not  to  weep  by  the  rivers  they  come  : 
Their  harps  are  not  hanged  in  despair  on  the 

willows. 
The    hope    of    the    mother    beats  youthful   and 

strong, 

Responsive  and  true  to   her  children's  pulsa 
tions, 
No    petrified    heart    has    she    saved    from    the 

wrong  — 

Our    Niobe    lives    for    her    place  'niong    the 
nations  ! 

Then   drink,   all   her   sons  —  be   they  Keltic   or 

Danish, 

Or  Norman  or  Saxon — one  mantle  was  o'er  us  ; 
Let  race  lines,  and  creed  lines,  and  every  line, 

vanish — 

We   drink  as   the  Gael :  "  To  the  Mother  that 
bore  us ! " 


AT    FREDER1CKSBURG.  IOQ 


AT  FREDERICKSBURG.—  DEC.  13,  1862. 


/^OD  send  us  peace,  and  keep  red  strife  away; 
But  should  it  come,  God  send  us  men  and 

steel  ! 
The  land  is  dead  that  dare  not  face  the  day 

When  foreign  danger  threats  the  common  weal. 

Defenders  strong  are  they  that  homes  defend  ; 

From  ready  arms  the  spoiler  keeps  afar. 
Well  blest  the  country  that  has  sons  to  lend 

From  trades  of  peace  to  learn  the  trade  of  war. 

Thrice  blest  the  nation  that  has  every  son 
A  soldier,  ready  for  the  warning  sound  ; 

Who  marches  homeward  when  the  fight  is  done, 
To  swing  the  hammer  and  to  till  the  ground. 

Call  back  that  morning,  with  its  lurid  light, 
When  through  our  land  the  awful  war-bell  tolled  ; 


IIO      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

When  lips  were  mute,  and  women's  faces  white 
As  the  pale  cloud  that  oiit  from  Sumter  rolled. 

Call  back  that  morn  :  an  instant  all  were  dumb, 

As  if  the  shot  had  struck  the  Nation's  life ; 
Then  cleared  the  smoke,  and  rolled  the  culling 

drum, 

And    men   streamed   in   to   meet  the   coming 
strife. 

They  closed  the  ledger  and  they  stilled  the  loom, 
The  plough  left  rusting  in  the  prairie  farm ; 

They  saw  but  "  Union  "  in  the  gathering  gloom  ; 
The  tearless  women  helped  the  men  to  arm  ; 

Brigades  from  towns  —  each  village  sent  its  band  : 
German  and  Irish  —  every  race  and  faith; 

There  was  no  question  then  of  native  land, 
But  —  love  the  Flag  and  follow  it  to  death. 

No  need  to  tell  their  tale  :  through  every  age 
The  splendid  story  shall  be  sung  and  said ; 


AT    FREDERICKSBURG.  I  I  I 

But  let  me  draw  one  picture  from  the  page  — 
For  words  of  song  embalm  the  hero  dead. 

The  smooth   hill   is   bare,  and  the  cannons  are 

planted, 

Like  Gorgon  fates  shading  its  terrible  brow  : 
The  word  has  been  passed  that  the  storrners  are 

wanted, 

And  Burnside's  battalions  are  mustering  now. 
The  armies  stand  by  to  behold  the  dread  meet 
ing; 
The  work  must  be  done  by  a  desperate  few  ; 

The  black-mouthed  guns  on  the  height  give  them 

greeting  — 
From  gun-mouth  to  plain  every  grass  blade  in 

view. 

Strong  earthworks  are  there,  and  the  rifles  be 
hind  them 

Are  Georgia  militia  —  an  Irish  brigade  — 
Their  caps  have  green   badges,  as  if  to  remind 

them 
Of  all  the  brave  record  their  country  has  made. 


112      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  EALLAD3. 

The  stormers  go  forward  —  the   Federals  cheer 

them ; 
They  breast  the   smooth   hillside  —  the   black 

mouths  are  dumb ; 
The  riflemen  lie  in  the  works  till  they  near  them, 

And  cover  the  stormers  as  upward  they  come. 
Was  ever  a  death-march  so  grand  and  so  solemn  ? 
At  last,  the  dark  summit  with  flame  is  enlined ; 
The   great   guns    belch   doom   on    the   sacrificed 

column, 
That  reels  from  the  height,  leaving  hundreds 

behind. 
The  armies  are  hushed  —  there  is  no  cause  for 

cheering : 

The  fall  of  brave  men  to  brave  men  is  a  pain. 
Again  come  the  stormers  1  and  as  they  are  nearing 

The  flame-sheeted  rifle-lines,  reel  back  again. 
And  so  till  full  noon  come  the  Federal  masses  — 
Flung  back  from  the  height,  as  the  cliff  flings  a 

wave ; 

Brigade  on  brigade  to  the  death-struggle  passes, 
No  wavering  rank  till  it  steps  on  the  grave. 


AT    FREDERICKSBURG.  113 

Then  comes  a  brief  lull,  and  the  smoke-pall   is 

lifted, 

The  green  of  the  hillside  no  longer  is  seen  ; 
The  dead  soldiers  lie  as  the  sea-weed  is  drifted, 
The    earthworks    still    held    by   the  badges   of 

green. 
Have   they   quailed?    is   the    word.     No:    again 

they  are  forming  — 

Again  comes  a  column  to  death  and  defeat ! 
What  is  it  in  these  who  shall  now  do  the  storming 
That  makes  every  Georgian  spring  to  his  feet? 

"  O  God  !  what  a  pity  ! "  they  cry  in  their  cover, 
As  rifles  are  readied  and  bayonets  made  tight ; 
"Tis  Meagher  and  his  fellows  !  their  caps  have 

green  clover ; 
'Tis  Greek  to  Greek  now  for  the  rest  of  the 

fight ! " 
Twelve  hundred  the  column,  their  rent  flag  before 

them, 

With  Meagher  at  their  head,  they  have  dashed 
at  the  hill ! 


114      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Their  foemen  arc  proud  of  the  country  that  bore 

them  ; 

But,  Irish  in  love,  they  are  enemies  still. 
Out  rings  the  fierce  word,  "Let  them  have  it!" 

the  rifles 
Are  emptied  point-blank  in  the  hearts  of  the 

foe  : 

It  is  green  against  green,  but  a  principle  stifles 
The  Irishman's  love  in  the  Georgian's  blow. 
The  column  has  reeled,  but  it  is  not  defeated ; 

In  front  of  the  guns  they  re-form  and  attack ; 
Six  times  they  have  done  it,  and  six  times  re 
treated  ; 
Twelve  hundred  they  came,  and  two  hundred 

go  back. 

Two  hundred  go  back  with  the  chivalrous  story ; 
The  wild  day  is  closed  in  the  night's  solemn 

shroud  ; 
A    thousand    lie    dead,    but   their   death   was   a 

glory 
That  calls  not  for  tears  —  the   Green  Badges 

O 

are  proud  I 


AT    FREDERICKSBURG.  115 

Bright  honor  be  theirs  who  for  honor  were  fear 
less, 
Who  charged  for  their  flag  to  the  grim  cannon's 

mouth ; 
And  honor  to  them  who  were  true,  though  not 

tearless, — 
Who  bravely   that  day  kept  the  cause  of  the 

South. 

The  quarrel  is  done — "God  avert  such  another  ; 
The   lesson   it    brought   we    should    evermore 

heed : 

Who  loveth  the  Flag  is  a  man  and  a  brother, 
No  matter  what   birth  or  what  race  or  what 
creed. 


Il6      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 


THE  PRIESTS  OF  IRELAND. 

["  The  time  has  arrived  when  the  interests  of  our  country 
require  from  us,  as  priests  and  as  Irishmen,  a  public  pro 
nouncement  on  the  vital  question  of  Home  Rule.  .  .  .  We 
suggest  the  holding  of  an  aggregate  meeting  in  Dublin,  of  the 
representatives  of  all  interested  in  this  great  question  —  and 
they  are  the  entire  people,  without  distinction  of  creed  or 
class — for  the  purpose  of  placing,  by  constitutional  means,  on 
a  broad  and  definite  basis,  the  nation's  demand  for  the  restora 
tion  of  its  plundered  rights."  —  Extract  from  the.  Declaration 
of  the  Bishop  and  Priests  of  the  Diocese  of  (Jloyne,  made  on 
Sept.  15,  187o.] 

"\7"OU  have  waited,  Priests  of  Ireland,  until  the 

hour  was  late : 
You    have   stood   with   folded   arms   until   'twas 

asked  —  Why  do  they  wait  ? 
By  the  fever  and  the  famine  you  have  seen  your 

flocks  grow  thin, 
Till  the  whisper  hissed  through  Ireland  that  your 

silence  was  a  sin. 
You   have  looked  with  tearless  eyes  on  fleets  of 

exile-laden  ships, 
And   the   hands   that    stretched   toward    Ireland 

brought  no  tremor  to  your  lips  ; 


THE   PRIESTS    OF    IRELAND.  I  I/ 

111  the  sacred  cause  of  freedom   you  have  seen 

your  people  band, 
And  they  looked  to  you  for  sympathy  :  you  never 

stirred  a  hand ; 
But  you  stood  upon  the  altar,  with  their  blood 

within  your  veins, 
And  you  bade  the  pale-faced  people  to  be  patient 

in  their  chains ! 
Ah,  you  told  them  —  it  was  cruel  —  but  you  said 

they  were  not  true 
To  the  holy   faith  of  Patrick,  if  they  were  not 

ruled  by  you  ; 
Yes,  you  told  them  from  the  altar — they,  the 

vanguard  of  the  Faith  — 
With   your  eyes   like   flint   against  them  —  that 

their  banding  was  a  death  — 
Was  a  death  to  something  holy  :  till  the  heart- 
wrung  people  cried 
That  their  priests  had  turned  against  them  —  that 

they  had  no  more  a  guide — 
That  the   English  gold   had  bought  you — yes, 

they  said  it  —  but  they  lied  ! 


Il8      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Yea,  they  lied,  they  sinned,  not  knowing  you  — 

they  had  not  ganged  your  love  : 
Heaven  bless  you,  Priests  of  Ireland,  for  the  wis 
dom  from  above, 
For  the  strength  that  made  you,   loving  them, 

crush  back  the  tears  that  rose 
When  your  country's  heart  was  quiv'ring  'neath 

the  statesman's  muffled  blows  : 
You   saw   clearer   far   than   they   did,    and   you 

grieved  for  Ireland's  pain  ; 
But  you   did   not   rouse   the  people  —  and  your 

silence  was  their  gain ; 
For  too  often  has  the  peasant  dared  to  dash  his 

naked  arm 
'Gainst  the  sabre  of  the  soldier :  but  you  shielded 

him  from  harm, 
And  your  face  was  set  against  him — though  your 

heart  was  with  his  hand 
When  it  flung  aside  the  plough  to  snatch  a  pike 

for  fatherland ! 


THE   PRIESTS   OF   IRELAND.  1 19 

O,    God   bless  you,   Priests   of  Ireland !      You 

were  waiting  with  a  will, 
You  were  waiting  with  a  purpose  when  you  bade 

your  flocks  be  still ; 
And  you  preached  from  off  your  altars  not  alone 

the  Word  Sublime, 
But  your  silence  preached   to    Irishmen — "Be 

patient :  bide  your  time  T" 

And  they  heard  you,  and  obeyed,  as  well  as  out 
raged  men  could  do  :  — 
Only  some,  who  loved   poor  Ireland,  but  who 

erred  in  doubting  you, 
Doubting  you,  who  could  not  tell  them  why  you 

spake  the  strange  behest  — 
You,  who-  saw  the   day  was   coming  when   the 

moral  strength  was  best  — 
You,  whose  hearts  were  sore  with  looking  on  your 

country's  quick  decay  — 
You,  whose  chapel  seats  were  empty  and  your 

people  fled  away — 
You,  who  marked  amid  the  fields  where  once  the 

peasant's  cabin  stood  — 


I2O  SONGS,    LEGENDS,    AND   BA-LLADS. 

You,  who  saw  your  kith  and  kiiidred  swell  the 

emigration  flood — 
You,  the  soggarth  in  the  famine,  and  the  helper 

in  the  frost  — 
You,   whose   shadow   was   a   sunshine    when   all 

other  hope  was  lost  — 
Yes,  they  doubted  —  and  you  knew  it  —  but  you 

never  said  a  word  ; 
Only   preached,    "Be   still:    be   patient!"    and, 

thank  God,  your  voice  was  heard. 

Now,  the  day  foreseen  is  breaking — it  has 
dawned  upon  the  land, 

And  the  priests  still  preach  in  Ireland :  do  they 
bid  their  flocks  disband  ? 

Do  they  tell  them  still  to  suffer  and  be  silent? 
No  !  their  words 

Flash  from  Dublin  Bay  to  Connaught,  brighter 
than  the  gleam  of  swords  ! 

Flash  from  Donegal  to  Kerry,  and  from  Water- 
ford  to  Clare, 

And  the  nationhood  awaking  thrills  the  sorrow- 
In  den  air. 


THE   PRIESTS   OF   IRELAND.  121 

Well  they  judged  their  time — they  waited  till  the 

bar  was  glowing  white, 
Then  they  swung  it  on  the  anvil,  striking  down 

with  earnest  might, 
And    the    burning   sparks   that   scatter   lose    no 

lustre  on  their  way, 
Till  five  million  hearts  in  Ireland  and  ten  millions 

far  away 
Feel  the  first  good  blow,  and  answer ;  and  they 

will  not  rest  with  one  : 
Now  the  first  is  struck,  the  anvil  shows  the  labor 

well  begun ; 
Swing  them  in  with  lusty  sinew  and  the  work  will 

soon  be  done  ! 
Let   them    sound    from    hoary    Cashel ;    Kerry, 

Meath,  and  Ross  stand  forth ; 
Let  them  ring  from  Cloyne   and  Tuam  and  the 

Primate  of  the  North ; 
Ask  not  class  or  creed :   let   "Ireland ! "  be  the 

tiilismauic  word  ; 
Let  the  blessed   sound  of  unity  from   North  to 

South  be  heard ; 


122      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Carve  the  words  :   "  No  creed  distinctions  ! "   on 

O'Counell's  granite  tomb, 
And  his  dust  will  feel  their  meaning  and  rekindle 

in  the  gloom. 
Priest  to  priest,  to  sound  the  summons  —  and  the 

answer,  man  to  man  ; 
With   the   people  round   the    standard,  and   the 

prelates  in  the  van. 
Let  the  heart  of  Ireland's  hoping  keep  this  golden 

rule  of  Cloyue 
Till  the  Orange  fades  from  Derry  and  the  shadow 

from  the  Boyne. 
Let  the  words  be  carried  outward  till  the  farthest 

lands  they  reach  : 
"After   Christ,    their   country's  freedom   do   the 

Irish  prelates  preach  ! " 


RELEASED. 


RELEASED— JANUARY,  1878.* 

r  I  ^HEY  are  free  at  lastl     They  can   face  the 

sun ; 
Their    hearts    now    throb    with    the    world's 

pulsation ; 

Their  prisons  are  open  —  their  night  is  done  ; 
'Tis  England's  mere}'  and  reparation  ! 

The  years  of  their  doom  have  slowly  sped  — 

Their  lirnbs  are  withered  — their  ties  are  riven ; 
Their  children   are   scattered,  their  friends   are 

dead  — 

But  the  prisons  are  open  —  the  "crime"  for 
given. 


*  ON  the  6th  of  January,  1878,  three  of  the  Irish  political 
prisoners,  who  had  been  confined  since  I860,  were  set  at  lib 
erty.  The  released  men  were  received  by  their  fellow-country 
men  in  London.  "  They  are  well,"  said  the  report,  "  but  they 
look  prematurely  old." 


124      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

God  !  what  a  threshold  they  stand  upon  : 

The   world    has   passed   on   while   they   were 

buried ; 
In  the  glare  of  the  sun  they  walk  alone 

On  the  grass-grown  track  where  the  crowd  has 
hurried. 

Haggard  and  broken  and  seared  with  pain, 

They  seek  the  remembered  friends  and  places  : 

Men  shuddering  turn,  and  gaze  again 

At  the  deep-drawn  lines  on  their  altered  faces. 

What  do  they  read  on  the  pallid  page  ? 

What  is  the  tale  of  these  woful  letters  ? 
A  lesson  as  old  as  their  country's  age, 

Of  a   love  that   is   stronger  than    stripes  and 
fetters. 

In  the  blood  of  the  slain  some  dip  their  blade, 
And  swear  by  the  stain  the  foe  to  follow  : 

But  a  deadlier  oath  might  here  be  made, 
On  the  wasted  bodies  and  faces  hollow. 


RELEASED.  125 

Irishmen  !     You  who  have  kept  the  peace  — 
Look  on  these  forms  diseased  and  broken  : 

Believe,  if  you  can,  that  their  late  release, 
When  their  lives  are  sapped,  is  a  good-will 
token. 

Their  hearts  are  the  bait  on  England's  hook ; 

For  this  are  they  dragged  from  her  hopeless 

prison ; 
She  reads  her  doom  in  the  Nations'  book  — 

She  fears  the  day  that  has  darkly  risen ; 

She  reaches  her  hand  for  Ireland's  aid  — 
Ireland,  scourged,  contemned,  derided; 

She  begs  from  the  beggar  her  hale  has  made ; 
She  seeks  for  the  strength  her  guile  divided. 

She  offers  a  bribe  —  ah,  God  above  ! 

Behold  the  price  of  the  desecration  : 
The  hearts  she  has  tortured  for  Irish  love 

She  brings  as  a  bribe  to  the  Irish  nation  ! 


126      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

O,  blind  and  cruel !     She  fills  her  cup 

With   conquest   and   pride,   till   its   red   wine 
splashes : 

But  shrieks  at  the  draught  as  she  drinks  it  up  — 
Her  wine  has  been  turned  to  blood  and  ashes. 

We  know  her — our  Sister  !    Come  on  the  storm  ! 

God  send  it  soon  and  sudden  upon  her : 
The  race  she  has  shattered  and  sought  to  deform 

Shall  laugh  as  she  drinks  the  black  dishonor. 


THE   PATRIOTS   GRAVE.  127 


THE  PATRIOT'S   GRAVE. 

READ  AT  THE  EMMET  CENTENNIAL   IN   BOSTON,  MARCH  4, 
1878. 

["I  am  going  to  my  cold  and  silent  grave — my  lamp  of  life 
is  nearly  extinguished.  I  have  parted  with  everything  that 
was  dear  to  me  in  this  life  for  my  country's  cause — with  the 
idol  of  my  soul,  the  object  of  my  affections :  my  race  is  run, 
the  grave  opens  to  receive  me,  and  I  sink  into  its  bosom!  I 
have  but  one  request  to  make  at  my  departure  from  this  world 
—  it  is  the  charity  of  its  silence!  Let  no  man  write  my  epi 
taph;  for,  as  no  man  who  knows  my  motives  dare  now  vindi 
cate  them,  let  not  ignorance  nor  prejudice  asperse  them.  Let 
them  rest  in  obscurity  and  peace !  Let  my  memory  be  left  in 
oblivion,  and  my  tomb  uninscribed,  until  other  times  and 
other  men  can  do  justice  to  my  character.  When  my  country 
takes  her  place  among  the  nations  of  the  earth,  then,  and  not 
till  then,  let  my  epitaph  be  written."  —  Speech  of  Robert 
Emmet  in  the  Dock.] 

I. 
r  I  ^EAR  down  the  crape  from  the  column  !     Let 

the  shaft  stand  white  and  fair  ! 
Be  silent  the  wailing  music  —  there  is  no  death 

in  the  air  I 
We  come  not  in  plaint  or  sorrow  —  no  tears  may 

dim  our  sight : 
We  dare  not  weep  o'er  the  epitaph  we  have  not 

dared  to  write. 


128      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Come   hither   with   glowing  faces,  the    sire,  the 

youth,  and  the  child  ; 
This  grave  is  a  shrine  for  reverent   hearts    and 

hands  that  are  undefiled  : 
Its  ashes  are  inspiration  ;  it  giveth  us  strength  to 

bear, 
And  sweepeth  away  dissension,  and  nerveth  the 

will  to  dare. 

In  the  midst  of  the  tombs,  a  Gravestone  —  and 

written  thereon  DO  word  ! 
And  behold,  at  the  head  of  the  grave,  a  gibbet,  a 

torch,  and  a  sword  I 
And  the  people  kneel  by  the  gibbet,  and  pray  by 

the  nameless  stone 
For  the  torch  to  be  lit,  and  the  name  to  be  writ, 

and  the  sword's  red  work  to  be  done ! 

n. 

With  pride  and  not  with  grief 
We  lay  this  century  leaf 
Upon  the  tomb,  with  hearts  that  do  not  falter : 


THE   PATRIOT  S   GRAVE. 

A  few  brief,  toiling  years 
Since  fell  the  nation's  tears, 
And  lo,  the  patriot's  gibbet  is  an  altar  ! 

The  people  that  are  blest 

Have  him  they  love  the  best 

To  mount  the  martyr's  scaffold  when  they  need 
him; 

And  vain  the  cords  that  bind 

While  the  nation's  steadfast  mind, 
Like  the  needle  to  the  pole,  is  true  to  freedom  I 


rn. 

Three     powers     there    are    that    dominate    the 

world  — 
Fraud,  Force,  and  Eight — and  two  oppress  the 

one : 
The   bolts  of  Fraud   and  Force   like   twins   are 

hurled — 
Against  them  ever  standeth  Right  alone. 


I3O      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Cyclopiau  strokes  the  brutal  allies  give  : 

Their  fetters  massive  and  their  dungeon  walls ; 

Beneath  their  yoke,  weak  nations  cease  to  live, 
And  valiant  Right  itself  defenceless  falls  ! 

Defaced  is  law,  and  justice  slaiii  at  birth; 

Good  men  are  broken  —  malefactors  thrive  ; 
But,  when  the  tyrants  tower  o'er  the  earth, 

Behind  their  wheels  strong  right  is  still  alive  1 

Alive,  like  seed  that  God's  own  hand  has  sown  — 
Like  seed  that  lieth  in  the  lowly  furrow, 

But  springs  to  life  when  wintry  winds  are  blown  : 
To-day  the  earth  is  gray  —  'tis  green  to 
morrow. 

The  roots  strike  deep  despite  the  rulers'  power, 
The  plant  grows  strong  with  summer  sun  and 
rain, 

Till  Autumn  bursts  the  deep  red-hearted  flower, 
And  freedom  marches  to  the  front  again  1 


THE   PATRIOTS   GRAVE.  13! 

While   slept   the   right,    and   reigned    the    dual 

wrong, 
Unchanged,    unchecked,   for   half  a   thousand 

years, 

In  tears  of  blood  we  cried,  "O  Lord,  how  long?" 
And  even  God  seemed  deaf  to  Erin's  tears. 

But   when   she   lay   all   weak   and    bruised    and 

broken, 
Her  white  limbs  seared  with  cruel  chain  and 

thorn  — 
As   bursts   the  cloud,  the    lightning    word   was 

spoken, 

God's  seed  took  root  —  His  crop  of  men  was 
born  ! 

With  one  deep  breath  began  .the  land's  progres 
sion  : 

On  every  field  the  seeds  of  freedom  fell : 
Burke,  Grattan,  Flood,  and  Curran  in  the  ses 
sion — 
Fitzgerald,  Sheares,  and  Emmet  in  the  cell ! 


132      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Such  teachers  soon  aroused  the  dormant  nation — 

Such  sacrifice  insured  the  endless  fight : 
The   voice   of    Grattan   smote    wrong's   domina 
tion — 

The    death    of    Emmet    sealed   the    cause    of 
right ! 

IV. 

Richest  of  gifts  to    a   nation !     Death   with  the 

living  crown  ! 
Type   of   ideal    manhood   to   the   people's   heart 


Fount   of  the   hopes   we   cherish  —  Test   of  the 

things  we  do ; 
Gorgon's  face  for  the  traitor  —  Talisman  for  the 

true  ! 

Sweet  is  the  love  of  a  woman,  and  sweet  is  the 

kiss  of  a  child  ; 
Sweet  is  the  tender  strength,  and  the  bravery  of 

the  mild ; 


THE    PATRIOTS    GRAVE.  133 

But  sweeter  than  all,  for  embracing  all,  is  the 

young  life's  peerless  price  — 
The  young  heart  laid  on  the  altar,  as  a  nation's 

sacrifice. 

How  can  the  debt  be  cancelled?     Prayers  and 

tears  we  may  give  — 
But  how  recall  the  anguish  of  hearts  that  have 

ceased  to  live  ? 

Flushed  with  the  pride  of  genius — filled  with  the 

strength  of  life  — 
Thrilled  with  delicious  passion  for  her  who  would 

be  his  wife  — 

This  was  the  heart  he  offered  —  the  upright  life 

he  gave  — 
This  is  the  silent  sermon  of  the  patriot's  nameless 

grave. 

Shrine  of  a  nation's  honor  —  stone  left  blank  for 
a  name  — 


134      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Light  on  the  dark  horizon  to  guide  us  clear  from 
shame  — 


Chord  struck  deep  with  the  keynote,  telling  us 

what  can  save  — 
**A    nation    among   the   nations,"   or  forever  a 

nameless  grave. 


Such  is  the  will  of  the  martyr  —  the  burden  we 

still  must  bear ; 
But  even  from  death   he  reaches  the  legacy  to 

share : 

He  teaches  the  secret  of  manhood  —  the  watch 
word  of  those  who  aspire  — 

That  men  must  follow  freedom  though  it  lead 
through  blood  and  fire  ; 

That  sacrifice  is  the  bitter  draught  which  freemen 

still  must  quaff — 
That  every  patriotic  life  is  the  patriot's  epitaph. 


JOHN    MITCHEL.  135 


JOHN  MITCHEL. 

DEED  MARCH  20,  1875. 
I. 

"T^EAD,  with  his  harness  on  him : 

Rigid  and  cold  and  white, 
Marking  the  place  of  the  vanguard 
Still  in  the  ancient  fight. 

'The  climber  dead  on  the  hill-side, 
Before  the  height  is  won  : 

The  workman  dead  on  the  building, 
Before  the  work  is  done  ! 

O,  for  a  tongue  to  utter 

The  words  that  should  be  said  — 
Of  his  worth  that  was  silver,  living, 

That  is  gold  and  jasper,  dead  I 


136      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Dead  —  but  the  death  was  fitting : 

His  life,  to  the  latest  breath, 
Was  poured  like  wax  on  the  chart  of  right, 

And  is  sealed  by  the  stamp  of  Death  I 

Dead — but  the  end  was  fitting: 

First  in  the  ranks  he  led  ; 
And  he  marks  the  height  of  his  nation's  gain, 

As  he  lies  in  his  harness  —  dead  ! 


n. 

Weep  for  him,  Ireland  —  mother  lonely ; 

Weep  for  the  son  who  died  for  thee. 
Wayward  he  was,  but  he  loved  thee  only, 

Loyal  and  fearless  as  son  could  be. 
Weep  for  him,  Ireland  —  sorrowing  nation  — 

Faithful  to  all  who  are  true  to  thee : 
Never  a  son  in  thy  desolation 

Had  holier  love  for  thy  cause  than  he. 


JOHN    MITCHEL.  137 

Sons  of  the  Old  Land,  mark  the  story  — 

Mother  and  son  in  the  final  test : 
Weeping  she  sits  in  her  darkened  glory, 

Holding  her  dead  to  her  stricken  breast. 
Only  the  dead  on  her  knees  are  lying  — 

Ah,  poor  mother  beneath  the  Cross  ! 
Strength  is  won  by  the  constant  trying, 

Crowns  are  gemmed  by  the  tears  of  loss  ! 

Sons  of  the  Old  Land,  mark  the  story  — 

Mother  and  son  to  each  other  true : 
She  called,  and  he  answered,  old  and  hoary, 

And  gave  her  his  life  as  a  man  should  do. 
She  may  weep  —  but  for  us  no  weeping : 

Tears  are  vain  till  the  work  is  done ; 
Tears  for  her —  but  for  us  the  keeping 

Our  hearts  as  true  as  her  faithful  son. 


138      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 


A  NATION'S  TEST. 

READ    AT    THE    O'CONNELL    CENTENNIAL    IN    BOSTON,    ON 

AUGUST  C,  1875. 

I. 

A      NATION'S    greatness    lies    in    men,   not 

acres ; 

One  master-mind  is  worth  a  million  hands. 
No  royal  robes  have  marked  the  planet-shakers, 
But  Samson-strength  to  burst  the  ages'  bands. 
The  might  of  empire  gives  no  crown  supernal  — 

Athens  is  here — but  where  is  Macedon? 
A  dozen  lives  make  Greece  and  Rome  eternal, 
And  England's  fame  might  safely  rest  on  one. 

Here  test    and   text  are    drawn   from    Nature's 
preaching : 

Afric  and  Asia  —  half  the  rounded  earth  — 
In  teeming  lives  the  solemn  truth  are  teaching, 

That  insect-millions  may  have  human  birth. 


A   NATION'S   TEST.  139 

Sun-kissed  and  fruitful,  every  clod  is  breeding 
A  petty  life,  too  small  to  reach  the  eye : 

So  must  it  be,  with  no  Man  thinking,  leading, 
The  generations  creep  their  course  and  die. 

Hapless  the  lauds,  and  doomed  amid  the  races, 

That  give  no  answer  to  this  royal  test ; 
Their  toiling  tribes  will  droop  ignoble  faces, 

Till  earth  in  pity  takes  them  back  to  rest. 
A  vast  monotony  may  not  be  evil, 

But  God's  light  tells  us  it  cannot  be  good ; 
Valley  and  hill  have  beauty  —  but  the  level 

Must  bear  a  shadeless  and  a  stagnant  brood. 


ii. 

I  bring  the  touchstone,  Motherland,  to  thee, 
And  test  thee  trembling,  fearing  thou  shouldst 
fail; 

If  fruitless,  sonless,  thou  wert  proved  to  be, 
Ah,  what  would  love  and  memory  avail? 


I4O      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Brave  laud  !  God  has  blest  thee  ! 

Thy  strong  heart  I  feel, 
As  I  touch  thee  and  test  thee  — 

Dear  laud  !     As  the  steel 

To  the  magnet  flies  upward,  so  rises  thy  breast, 
With  a  motherly  pride  to  the  touch  of  the  test. 


in. 

See !  she  smiles  beneath  the  touchstone,  looking 

on  her  distant  youth, 
Looking  down  her  line  of  leaders  and  of  workers 

for  the  truth. 
Ere    the    Teuton,    Norseman,    Briton,    left    the 

primal  woodland  spring, 
When  their  rule  was  might  and  rapine,  and  their 

law  a  painted  king ; 
When  the  sun  of  art  and  learning  still  was  in  the 

Orient ; 
When  the  pride  of  Babylonia  tinder  Cyrus'  hand 

was  shent ; 


A   NATION  S   TEST.  14! 

When  the  sphinx's  introverted  eye  turned  fresh 

from  Egypt's  guilt ; 
When  the  Persian  bowed  to  Athens  ;  when  the 

Parthenon  was  built ; 

When  the  Macedonian  climax  closed  the  Com 
monwealths  of  Greece ; 
When  the  wrath  of  Roman  manhood  burst  on 

Tarquin  for  Lucrece  — 
Then  was  Erin  rich  in  knowledge  —  thence  from 

out  her  Ollamh's  store  — 
Kenned    to-day    by    students    only  —  grew    her 

ancient  Senchus  More;  * 
Then  were  reared  her  mighty  builders,  who  made 

temples  to  the  sun  — 
There   they   stand  —  the   old    Round    Towers  — 

showing  how  their  work  was  done  : 


*  "  Senchus  More,"  or  Great  Law,  the  title  of  the  Brehon 
Laws,  translated  by  O'Donovan  and  O'Curry.  Ollamh  Fola, 
who  reigned  900  years  B.C.,  organized  a  triennial  parliament 
at.Tara,  of  the  chiefs,  priests,  and  bards,  who  digested  the 
laws  into  a  record  called  the  Psalter  of  Tara,  Ollamh  Fola 
founded  schools  of  history,  medicine,  philosophy,  poetry,  and 
astronomy,  which  were  protected  by  his  successors.  Kimbath 
(450  B.C.)  and  Hugony  (300  B.C.)  also  promoted  the  civil 
interests  of  the  kingdom  in  a  remarkable  manner. 


142      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Thrice  a  thousand  years  upon  them  —  shaming  all 

our  later  art  — 
Warning  fingers  raised  to  tell  us  we  must  build 

with  rev'rent  heart. 

Ah,  we  call  thee  Mother  Erin  !     Mother  thou  in 

right  of  years ; 
Mother  in  the  large  fruition  —  mother  in  the  joys 

and  tears. 
All  thy  life  has  been  a  symbol  —  we  can  only 

read  a  part  : 
God  will  flood  thee  yet  with    sunshine  for   the 

woes  that  drench  thy  heart. 
All    thy  life    has    been    symbolic   of    a   human 

mother's  life  : 
Youth's  sweet  hopes  and  dreams  have  vanished, 

and  the  travail  and  the  strife 
Are  upon  thee  in  the  present ;  but  thy  work  until 

to-day 
Still  has  been  for  truth   and   manhood  —  and  it 

shall  not  pass  away  : 


A   NATION  S   TEST.  143 

Justice  lives,  though  judgment  lingers  —  angels' 

feet  are  heavy  shod  — 
But  a  planet's  years  are  moments  in  th'  eternal 

day  of  God  1 


rv. 

Out  from  the  valley  of  death  and  tears, 
From  the  war  and  want  of  a  thousand  years, 
From  the  mark  of  sword  and  the  rust  of  chain, 
From  the  smoke  and  blood  of  the  penal  laws, 
The  Irish  men  and  the  Irish  cause 
Come  out  in  the  front  of  the  field  again  1 


o 


What  says  the  stranger  to  such  a  vitality  ? 
What  says  the  statesman  to  this  nationality  ? 
Flung  on  the  shore  of  a  sea  of  defeat, 
Hardly  the  swimmers  have  sprung  to  their  feet, 
When  the  nations  are  thrilled  by  a  clarion-word, 
And  Burke,  the  philosopher-statesman,  is  heard. 


144      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

When  shall  his  equal  be  ?    Down  from  the  stellar 
height 

Sees  he  the  planet  and  all  on  its  girth  — 
India,  Columbia,  and  Europe  —  his  eagle-sight 

Sweeps  at  a  glance  all  the  wrong  upon  earth. 
Races  or  sects  were  to  him  a  profanity : 

Hindoo  and  Negro  and  Kelt  were  as  one  ; 
Large  as  mankind  was  his  splendid  humanity, 

Large  in  its  record  the  work  he  has  done. 


v. 

What  need  to  mention  men  of  minor  note, 

When    there    be   minds  that  all    the    heights 

attain  ? 
What  school-boy  knoweth  not  the  hand  that  wrote 

"Sweet  Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the  plain"  ? 
What  man  that  speaketh  English  e'er  can  lift 

His  voice  'mid  scholars,  who  hath  missed  the  lore 
Of  Berkeley,  Curran,  Sheridan,  and  Swift, 

The  art  of  Foley  and  the  songs  of  Moore? 


A   NATION  S   TEST.  145 

Grattan  and  Flood  and  Emmet  —  where  is  he 
That  hath  not  learned  respect  for  such  as  these  ? 

Who  loveth  humor,  and  hath  yet  to  see 
Lover  and  Prout  and  Lever  and  Maclise  ? 


VI. 

Great  men  grow  greater  by  the  lapse  of  time : 
We  know  those  least  whom  we  have  seen  the 

latest ; 
And    they,   'mongst    those    whose    names    have 

grown  sublime, 
Who  worked  for  Human  Liberty,  are  greatest. 

And  now  for  one  who  allied  will  to  work, 

And  thought  to  act,   and    burning  speech   to 

thought ; 
Who    gained    the     prizes    that    were    seen    by 

Burke  — 

Burke    felt    the   wrong  —  O'Conuell  felt,    and 
fought. 


146      SONGS,  LEUENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Ever  the  same  —  from  boyhood  up  to  death  : 
His     race     was     crushed  — his     people    were 

defamed  ; 
He    fouud    the    spark,  and   fanned   it   with    his 

breath, 
And  fed  the  fire,  till  all  the  nation  flamed ! 

He    roused    the    farms  —  he    made    the    serf   a 
yeoman  ; 

He  drilled  his  millions  and  he  faced  the  foe ; 
But  not  with  lead  or  steel  he  struck  the  foeman  : 

Reason  the  sword — and  human  right  the  blow. 

He  fought  for  home  —  but  no  land-limit  bounded 
O'Connell's  faith ,  nor  curbed  his  sympathies ; 

All  wrong  to  liberty  must  be  confounded, 

Till  men  were  chainless  as  the  winds  and  seas. 

He  fought  for  faith  —  but  with  no  narrow  spirit ; 

With  ceaseless  hand  the  bigot  laws  he  smote ; 
One  chart,  he  said,  all  mankind  should  inherit, — 

The  right  to  worship  and  the  right  to  vote. 


A  NATION'S  TEST.  147 

Always  the  same  —  but  yet  a  glinting  prism  : 
In  wit,  law,  statecraft,  still  a  master-hand ; 

An  "uncrowned  king,"  whose  people's  love  was 

chrism ; 
His  title  —  Liberator  of  his  Land  ! 

"His  heart's  in  Rome,  his  spirit  is  in  heaven"  — 
So  runs  the  old  song  that  his  people  sing ; 

A  tall  Round  Tower  they  builded  in  Gtasnevin  — 
Fit  Irish  headstone  for  an  Irish  king  I 


VII. 

O  Motherland  !  there  is  no  cause  to  doubt  thee : 
Thy  mark  is  left  on  every  shore  to-day. 

Though  grief  and  wrong  may  cling  like  robes 

about  thee, 
Thy  motherhood  will  keep  thee  queen  alway. 

In  faith  and  patience  working,  and  believing 
Not  power  alone  can  make  a  noble  state  : 


148      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Whate'er  the  land,  though  all  things  else  con 
ceiving, 

Unless  it  breed  great  men,  it  is  not  great. 
Go  on,  dear  land,  and  midst  the  generations 

Send  out  strong  men  to  cry  the  word  aloud ; 
Thy  niche  is  empty  still  amidst  the  nations  — 

Go  on  in  faith,  and  God  must  raise  the  cloud. 


THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.  149 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN. 

LONG  time  ago,  from  Amsterdam  a  vessel  sailed 
away, — 
As  fair  a  ship  as  ever  flung  aside   the   laughing 

spray. 
Upon  the  shore  were  tearful  eyes,  and  scarfs  were 

in  the  air, 
As  to  her,  o'er  the  Zuyder  Zee,  went  fond  adieu 

and  prayer; 
And  brave  hearts,  yearning  shoreward  from  the 

outward- going  ship, 
Felt  lingering  kisses  clinging  still  to  tear-wet  cheek 

and  lip. 
She  steered  for  some  far  eastern  clime,  and,  as  she 

skimmed  the  seas, 
Each  taper  mast  was  bending  like  a  rod  before  the 

breeze. 


ISO      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Her  captain  was  a  stalwart  man, — an  iron  heart 

had  he,  — 
From  childhood's  days  he  sailed  upon  the  rolling 

Zuyder  Zee : 
He  nothing  feared  upon  the  earth,  and  scarcely 

heaven  feared, 
He  would  have  dared  and  done  whatever  mortal 

man  had  dared ! 
He  looked  aloft,  where  high  in  air  the  pennant  cut 

the  blue, 
And  every  rope  and  spar  and  sail  was  firm  and 

strong  and  true. 
He  turned  him  from  the  swelling  sail  to  gaze  upon 

the  shore,  — 
Ah !  little  thought  the  skipper  then  'twould  meet 

his  eye  no  more  : 
He  dreamt  not  that  an  awful  doom  was  hanging 

o'er  his  ship, 
That  Vanderdecken's  name  -would  yet  make  pale 

the  speaker's  lip. 
The  vessel  bounded  on  her  way,  and  spire  and 

dome  went  down, — 


THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.  151 

Ere  darkness  fell,  beneath  the  wave  had  sunk  the 

distant  town. 
No  more,  no  more,  ye  hapless  crew,  shall  Holland 

meet  your  eye. 
In  lingering  hope  and  keen  suspense,  maid,  wife, 

and  child  shall  die  ! 

Away,  away  the  vessel  speeds,  till  sea  and  sky 

alone 
Are  round  her,  as  her  course  she  steers  across  the 

torrid  zone. 
Away,  until  the  North  Star  fades,  the   Southern 

Cross  is  high, 
And  myriad  gems  of  brightest  beam  are  sparkling 

in  the  sky. 
The  tropic  winds  are  left  behind ;  she  nears  the 

Cape  of  Storms, 
Where  awful  Tempest  ever  sits  enthroned  in  wild 

alarms  ; 
Where  Ocean  in  his  anger  shakes  aloft  his  foamy 

crest, 
Disdainful  of  the  weakly  toys  that  ride  upon  his 

breast. 


SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Fierce  swell  the  winds  and  waters  round  the  Dutch 
man's  gallant  ship, 

But,  to  their  rage,  defiance  rings  from  Vander- 
decken's  lip  : 

Impotent  they  to  make  him  swerve,  their  might  he 
dares  despise, 

As  straight  he  holds  his  onward  course,  and  wind 
and  wave  defies. 

For  days  and  nights  he  struggles  in  the  wierd, 
unearthly  fight. 

His  brow  is  bent,  his  eye  is  fierce,  but  looks  of  deep 
affright 

Amongst  the  mariners  go  round,  as  hopelessly  they 
steer : 

They  do  not  dare  to  murmur,  but  they  whisper 
what  they  fear. 

Their  black-browed  captain  awes  them :  'neath  his 
darkened  eye  they  quail, 

And  in  a  grim  and  sullen  mood  their  bitter  fate 
bewail. 

As  some  fierce  rider  ruthless  spurs  a  timid,  wav 
ering  horse, 


THE    FLYING   DUTCHMAN.  153 

He  drives  his  shapely  vessel,  and  they  watch  the 

reckless  course, 
Till  once  again  their  skipper's  laugh  is  flung  upon 

the  blast : 
The  placid  ocean  smiles  beyond,  the  dreaded  Cape 

is  passed  I 

Away  across  the  Indian  main  the  vessel  northward 

glides ; 
A  thousand  murmuring  ripples   break   along  her 

graceful  sides: 
The  perfumed  breezes  fill  her  sails,  —  her  destined 

port  she  nears,  — 
The  captain's  brow  has  lost  its  frown,  the  mariners 

-  their  fears. 
"  Land  ho ! "  at  length   the  welcome   sound   the 

watchful  sailor  sings, 
And  soon  within  an  Indian  bay  the  ship  at  anchor 

swings. 
Not  idle  then  the  busy  crew :  ere  long  the  spacious 

hold 
Is  emptied  of  its  western  freight,  and  stored  with 

silk  and  gold. 


154      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Again  the  ponderous  anchor 's  weighed ;  the  shore 
is  left  behind, 

The  snowy  sails  are  bosomed  out  before  the  favor 
ing  wind. 

Across  the  warm  blue  Indian  sea  the  vessel  south 
ward  flies, 

And  once  again  the  North  Star  fades  and  Austral 
beacons  rise. 

For  home  she  steers !  siie  seems  to  know  and 
answer  to  the  word, 

And  swifter  skims  the  burnished  deep,  like  some 
fair  ocean-bird. 

"  For  home  !  for  home !  "  the  merry  crew  with 
gladsome  voices  cry, 

And  dark-browed  Vanderdecken  has  a  mild  light 
in  his  eye. 

But  once  again  the  Cape  draws  near,  and  furious 
billows  rise  ; 

And  still  the  daring  Dutchman's  laugh  the  hurri 
cane  defies. 

But  wildly  shrieked  the  tempest  ere  the  scornful 
sound  had  died, 


THE   FLYING  DUTCHMAN.  155 

A  warning  to  the  daring  man  to  curb  his  impious 

pride. 
A  crested  mountain  struck  the  ship,  and  like  a 

frighted  bird 
She  trembled  'neath  the  awful  shock.     Then  Van- 

derdecken  heard 

A  pleading  voice  within  the  gale,  —  his  better  an 
gel  spoke, 
But  fled  before   his  scowling  look,  as  mast-high 

mountains  broke 
Around  the  trembling  vessel,  till  the  crew  with 

terror  paled; 
But  Vanderdecken  never  flinched,  nor  'neath  the 

thunders  quailed. 
With  folded  arms  and  stern-pressed  lips,  dark  anger 

in  his  eye, 
He   answered  back   the   threatening   frown    that 

lowered  o'er  the  sky. 
"With  fierce  defiance  in  his  heart,  and  scornful  look 

of  flame, 
He  spoke,  and  thus  with  impious  voice  blasphemed 

God's  holy  name :  — 


156      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

"  Howl  on,  ye   winds !  ye  tempests,  howl !  your 

rage  is  spent  in  vain  : 
Despite  your  strength,  your  frowns,  your  hate,  I  '11 

ride  upon  the  main. 
Defiance  to  your  idle  shrieks  !     I  '11  sail  upon  my 

path: 
I  cringe  not  for  thy  Maker's  smile,  —  I  care  not  for 

His  wrath !  " 

He  ceased.  An  awful  silence  fell:  the  tempest 
and  the  sea 

Were  hushed  in  sudden  stillness  by  the  Ruler's 
dread  decree. 

The  ship  was  riding  motionless  within  the  gather 
ing  gloom ; 

The  Dutchman  stood  upon  the  poop  and  heard  his 
dreadful  doom. 

The  hapless  crew  were  on  the  deck  in  swooning 
terror  prone, — 

They,  too,  were  bound  in  fearful  fate.  In  angered 
thunder-tone 


THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.  157 

The  judgment  words  swept  o'er  the  sea:    "Go, 

wretch,  accurst,  condemned ! 
Go  sail  for  ever  on  the  deep,  by  shrieking  tempests 

hemmed. 
No  home,  no  port,  no   calm,  no   rest,  no   gentle 

fav'ring  breeze, 
Shall  ever  greet  thee.     Go,  accurst!    and  battle 

with   the  seas  ! 
Go,  braggart !  struggle  with  the  storm,  nor  ever 

cease  to  live, 
But  bear  a  million  tunes  the  pangs  that  death  and 

fear  can  give. 
Away !  and  hide  thy  guilty  head,  a  curse  to  all  thy 

kind 
Who  ever  see  thee  struggling,  wretch,  with  ocean 

and  with  wind. 
Away,  presumptuous  worm  of  earth  !     Go  teach 

thy  fellow-worms 
The  awful  fate  that  waits  on  him  who  braves  the 

King  of  Storms  1 " 


158      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

'Twas  o'er.  A  lurid  lightning  flash  lit  up  the  sea 
and  sky 

Around  and  o'er  the  fated  ship ;  then  rose  a  wail 
ing  cry 

From  every  heart  within  her,  of  keen  anguish  and 
despair ; 

But  mercy  was  for  them  no  more,  —  it  died  away 
in  air. 

Once  more  the  lurid  light  gleamed  out,  — the  ship 

was  still  at  rest, 
The  crew  were  standing  at  their  posts  ;  with  arms 

across  his  breast 
Still  stood  the  captain  on  the  poop,  but  bent  and 

crouching  now 
He  bowed  beneath  that  fiat  dread,  and  o'er  his 

swarthy  brow 
Swept  lines  of  anguish,  as  if  he  a  thousand  years 

of  pain 
Had  lived  and  suffered.     Then  across  the  heaving, 

angry  main 


THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.  159 

The  tempest  shrieked  triumphant,  and  the  angry 

waters  hissed 
Their  vengeful  hate  against  the  toy  they  oftentimes 

had  kissed. 
And  ever  through  the  midnight  storm  that  haples? 

crew  must  speed : 
They  try  to  round  the  stormy  Cape,  but  never  can 

succeed. 
And  oft  when  gales  are  wildest,  and  the  lightning's 

vivid  sheen 
Flashes  back  the  ocean's  anger,  still  the  Phantom 

Ship  is  seen 

Ever  sailing  to  the  southward  in  the  fierce  tor 
nado's  swoop, 
With  her  ghostly  crew  and  canvas,  and  her  captain 

on  the  poop, 
Unrelenting,  unforgiven ;  and  'tis  said  that  every 

word 
Of  his  blasphemous  defiance  still  upon  the  gale  is 

heard  ! 
But  Heaven  help  the  ship  near  which  the  dismal 

sailor  steers,  — 


l6o      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

The  doom  of  those  is  sealed  to  whom  that  Phan 
tom  Shi;i  appears: 

They  '11  never  reach  their  destined  port,  —  they  '11 
see  their  homes  no  more,  — 

They  who  see  the  Flying  Dutchman  —  never, 
never  reach  the  shore ! 


UNCLE  NED'S  TALE.  161 


UNCLE    NED'S    TALE. 
AN  OLD  DRAGOON'S  STORY. 

T  OFTEN,  musing,  wander  back  to  days  long 

since  gone  by, 
And  far-off  scenes  and  long-lost  forms   arise   to 

fancy's  eye. 
A  group  familiar  now  I  see,  who  all  but  one  are 

fled,— 
My  mother,  sister  Jane,  myself,  and  dear  old  Uncle 

Ned. 
I  '11  tell  you  how  I  see  them  now.    First,  mother 

in  her  chair 
Sits  knitting  by  the  parlor  fire,  with  anxious  matron 

air; 
My  sister  Jane,  just  nine  years  old,  is  seated  at  her 

feet, 
With  look  demure,  as  if  she,  too,  were  thinking 

how  to  meet 


1 62      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

The  butcher's  or  the  baker's  bill,  —  though  not  a 
thought  has  she 

Of  aught  beside  her  girlish  toys ;  and  next  to  her 
I  see 

Myself,  a  sturdy  lad  of  twelve,  —  neglectful  of  the 
book 

That  open  lies  upon  my  knee,  —  my  fixed  admir 
ing  look 

At  Uncle  Ned,  upon  the  left,  whose  upright,  mar 
tial  mien, 

Whose  empty  sleeve  and  gray  moustache,  proclaim 
what  he  has  been. 

My  mother  I  had  always  loved;  my  father  then 
was  dead ; 

But  'twas  more  than  love  —  'twas  worship  —  I  felt 
for  Uncle  Ned. 

Such  tales  he  had  of  battle-fields,  —  the  victory 
and  the  rout, 

The  ringing  cheer,  the  dying  shriek,  the  loud 
exulting  shout ! 

And  how,  forgetting  age  and  wounds,  his  eye 
would  kindle  bright, 


UNCLE  NED'S  TALE.  1 6^ 

When  telling  of  some  desperate  ride  or  close  and 

deadly  fight ! 
But  oft  I  noticed,  in  the  midst  of  some  wild  martial 

tale, 
To  which  I  lent  attentive  ear,  my  mother's  cheek 

grow  pale : 
She  sighed  to  see  my  kindled  look,  and  feared  I 

might  be  led 
To  follow  in  the  wayward  steps  of  poor  old  Uncle 

Ned. 
But  with  all  the  wondrous  tales   he   told,  'twas 

strange  I  never  heard 
Of  his  last  fight,  for  of  that  day  he  never  spoke  a 

word. 
And  yet  'twas  there  he  lost  his  arm,  and  once  he 

e'en  confessed 
'Twas  there  he  won  the  glittering  cross  he  wore 

upon  his  breast. 
It  hung  the  centre  of  a  group  of  Glory's  emblems 

fair, 
And  royal  hands,  he  told  me  once,  had  placed  the 

bauble  there. 


164      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Each  day  that  passed  I  hungered  more  to  hear 
about  that  fight, 

And  oftentimes  I  prayed  in  vain.  At  length,  one 
winter's  night,  — 

The  very  night  I  speak  of  now,  —  with  more  than 
usual  care 

I  filled  his  pipe,  then  took  my  stand  beside  my 
uncle's  chair : 

I  fixed  my  eyes  upon  the  Cross,  —  he  saw  my  youth 
ful  plan ; 

And,  smiling,  laid  the  pipe  aside  and  thus  the  tale 
began :  — 

**  Well,  boy,  it  was  in  summer  time,  and  just  at 

morning's  light 
We  heard  the  '  Boot  and  Saddle ! '  sound :  the  foe 

was  then  in  sight, 
Just  winding  round  a  distant  hill  and  opening  on 

the  plain. 
Each  trooper  looked  with  careful  eye  to  girth  and 

curb  and  rein. 


UNCLE  NED'S  TALE.  1 65 

We   snatched  a  hasty  breakfast,  —  we   were   old 

campaigners  then : 
That  morn,  of  all  our  splendid  corps,  we  'd  scarce 

one  hundred  men ; 
But  they  were   soldiers,  tried   and   true,   who  'd 

rather  die  than  yield: 
The  rest  were  scattered  far  and  wide  o'er  many  a 

hard-fought  field. 
Our  trumpet  now   rang    sharply    out,   and  at  a 

swinging  pace 
We  left  the  bivouac  behind ;   and  soon  the  eye 

could  trace 
The  columns  moving  o'er  the  plain.     Oh !  'twas  a 

stirring  sight 
To  see  two  mighty  armies  there  preparing  for  the 

fight: 
To  watch  the  heavy  masses,  as,  with   practised, 

steady  wheel, 

They  opened  out  in  slender  lines  of  brightly  flash 
ing  steel. 
Our  place  was  on  the  farther  flank,  behind  some 

rising  ground, 


1 66      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

That  hid  the  stirring  scene  from  view  ;  but  soon  a 

"booming  sound 
Proclaimed  the  opening  of  the  fight.     Then  war's 

loud  thunder  rolled, 
And  hurtling  shells  and  whistling  balls  their  deadly 

message  told. 
We  hoped  to  have  a  gallant  day ;  our  hearts  were 

all  aglow ; 
We  longed  for  one  wild,  sweeping  charge,  to  chase 

the  flying  foe. 
Our  troopers  marked  the  hours  glide  by,  but  still 

no  orders  came  : 
They  clutched  their  swords,  and  muttered  words 

'twere  better  not  to  name. 
For  hours  the  loud  artillery  roared,  —  the  sun  was 

at  its  height,  — 
Still  there  we  lay  behind  that  hill,  shut  out  from 

all  the  fight ! 
We  heard  the  maddened  charging  yells,  the  ringing 

British  cheers, 
And  all  the  din  of  glorious  war  kept  sounding  in 

our  ears. 


UNCLE  NED'S  TALE.  l6/ 

Our  hearts  with  fierce  impatience  throbbed,  we 

cursed  the  very  hill 
That  hid  the  sight :  the  evening  fell,  and  we  were 

idle  still. 
The  horses,  too,  were  almost  wild,  and  told  with 

angry  snort 
And  blazing  eye  their  fierce  desire   to  join  the 

savage  sport. 
When  lower  still  the  sun  had  sunk,  and  with  it 

all  our  hope, 
A  horseman,  soiled  with  smoke  and  sweat,  came 

dashing  down  the  slope. 
He  bore  the  wished-for  orders.     '  At  last  I '  our 

Colonel  cried ; 
And  as  he  read  the  brief  despatch  his  glance  was 

filled  with  pride. 
Then  he  who  bore  the  orders,  in  a  low,  emphatic 

tone, 
The  stern,  expressive  sentence  spoke,  —  *  He  said  it 

must  be  done  ! ' 
*  It  shall  be  done  ! '  our  Colonel  cried.   *  Men,  look 

to  strap  and  girth, 


1 68      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

We  Ve  work  to  do  this  day  will  prove  what  every 

man  is  worth ; 
Ay,  work,  my  lads,  will  make  amends  for  all  our 

long  delay, — 
The  General  says  on  us  depends  the  fortune  of  the 

day!' 

"  No  order  needed  we  to  mount,  —  each  man  was 

in  his  place, 
And  stern  and  dangerous  was  the  look  on  every 

veteran  face. 
We  trotted  sharply  up  the  hill,  and  halted  on  the 

brow, 
And  then  that  glorious  field  appeared.     Oh !  lad, 

I  see  it  now  ! 

But  little  time  had  we  to  spare  foi  idle  gazing  then : 
Beneath  us,  in  the  valley,  stood  a  dark-clad  mass  of 

men: 
It  cut  the  British  line  in  two.   Our  Colonel  shouted, 

'There! 
Behold  your  work !     Our  orders  are  to  charge  and 

break  that  square  ! ' 


UNCLE  NED'S  TALE.  169 

Each  trooper  drew  a  heavy  breath,  then  gathered 

up  his  reins, 
And  pressed  the  helmet  o'er  his  brow  ;  the  horses 

tossed  their  manes 
In  protest  fierce  against  the  curb,  and  spurned  the 

springy  heath, 
Impatient  for  the  trumpet's  sound  to  bid  them  rush 

to  death. 

"  Well,  boy,  that  moment  seemed  an  hour :  at  last 

we  heard  the  words, — 
'  Dragoons !  I  know  you  '11  follow  me.    Ride  steady, 

men !     Draw  swords  ! ' 
The  trumpet  sounded  :  off  we  dashed,  at  first  with 

steady  pace, 
But  growing  swifter  as  we  went.     Oh!  'twas  a 

gallant  race ! 
TIfcee-fourths  the  ground  was  left  behind :  the  loud 

and  thrilling  '  Charge  1 ' 
Rang  out ;  but,  fairly  frantic  now,  we  needed  not 

to  urge 


I/O      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

With  voice  or  rein   our  gallant  steeds,  or  touch 

their  foaming  flanks. 
They  seemed  to  fly.   Now  straight  in  front  appeared 

the  kneeling  ranks. 
Above  them  waved  a  standard  broad  :  we  saw  their 

rifles  raised,  — 
A  moment  more,    with  awful   crash,  the   deadly 

volley  blazed. 
The  bullets  whistled  through  our  ranks,  and  many 

a  trooper  fell ; 

But  we  were  left.     What  cared  we  then  ?  but  on 
ward  rushing  still ! 
Again  the  crash  roared  fiercely  out ;  but  on  I  still 

madly  on ! 
We  heard  the  shrieks  of  dying  men,  but  recked  not 

who  was  gone. 
We  gored  the  horses'  foaming  flanks,  and  on  through 

smoke  and  glare  Jt 

We  wildly  dashed,  with  clenched  teeth.     We  had 

no  thought,  no  care ! 
Then  came  a  sudden,  sweeping  rush.     Again  with 

savage  heel 


UNCLE   NEDS   TALE.  I /I 

I  struck  my  horse  :  with  awful  bound  he  rose  right 
o'er  their  steel ! 

"  Well,  boy,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  that  dreadful 

leap  was  made, 
But  there  I  rode,  inside  the  square,  and  grasped  a 

reeking  blade. 
I  cared  not  that  I  was  alone,  my  eyes  seem  rilled 

with  blood : 

I  never  thought  a  man  could  feel  in  such  a  mur 
derous  mood. 
I  parried  not,  nor  guarded  thrusts ;  I  felt  not  pain 

or  wound, 
But  madly  spurred  the  frantic  horse,  and  swept  my 

sword  around. 
I  tried  to  reach  the  standard  sheet;  but  there  at 

last  was  foiled. 

• 

The  gallant  horse  was  jaded  now,  and  from  the 

steel  recoiled. 
They  saw  his  fright,  and  pressed  him  then :  his 

terror  made  him  rear, 
And  falling  back  he  -crushed  their  ranks,  and  broke 

their  guarded  square ! 


172      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

My  comrades  saw  the  gap  he  made,  and  soon  came 

dashing  in ; 
They  raised  me  up,  —  I  felt  no  hurt,  but  mingled 

in  the  din. 
I  'd  seen  some  fearful  work  before,  but  never  was 

engaged 
In  such  a  wild  and  savage  fight  as  now  around  me 

raged. 
The  foe  had  ceased  their  firing,  and  now  plied  the 

deadly  steel : 
Though  all  our  men  were  wounded  then,  no  pain 

they  seemed  to  feel. 
No  groans  escaped  from  those  who  fell,  but  horiid 

oaths  instead, 
And  scowling  looks  of  hate  were  on  the  features 

of  the  dead. 

The  fight  was  round  the  standard :  though  outnum 
bered  ten  to  one, 
We  held  our  ground,  —  ay,  more  than  that,  —  we 

still  kept  pushing  on. 
Our  men  now  made  a  desperate  rush  to  take  the 

flag  by  storm. 


UNCLE  NED'S  TALE. 

I  seized  the  pole,  a  blow  came  down  and  crushed 

my  outstretched  arm. 
I  felt  a  sudden  thrill  of  pain,  but  that  soon  passed 

away ; 
And,  with  a  devilish  thirst  for  blood,  again  I  joined 

the  fray. 
At  last  we  rallied  all  our  strength,  and  charged  o'er 

heaps  of  slain : 
Some  fought  to  death ;  some  wavered,  — then  fled 

across  the  plain. 

"  Well,  boy,  the  rest  is  all  confused :  there  was  a 

fearful  rout ; 
I  saw  our  troopers  chase  the  foe,  and  heard  their 

maddened  shout. 
Then  came  a  blank :  my  senses  reeled,  I  know  not 

how  I  fell ; 
I  seemed  to  grapple  with  a  foe,  but  that  I  cannot 

tell. 
My  mind  was  gone :  when  it  came  back  I  saw  the 

moon  on  high ; 
Around  me  all  was  still  as  death.     I  gazed  up  at 

the  sky, 


SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

And  watched   the  glimmering  stars  above,  —  so 

quiet  did  they  seem, — 
And  all  that  dreadful  field  appeared  like  some  wild, 

fearful  dream. 
But  meurjry  soon  came  back  again,  and  cleared  my 

wandering  brain, 
And  then  from  every  joint  and  limb  shot  fiery  darts 

of  pain. 
My  throat  was  parched,  the  burning  thirst  increased 

with  every  breath ; 
I  made  no  effort  to  arise,  but  wished  and  prayed  for 

death. 
My  bridle  arm  was  broken,  and  lay  throbbing  on 

the  sward, 
But  something   still  my  right  hand  grasped:    1 

thought  it  was  my  sword. 
I  raised  my  hand  to  cast  it  off,  —  no  reeking  blade 

was  there ; 
Then  life    and   strength  returned,  —  I    held    the 

Standard  of  the  Square  ! 
With  bounding  heart  I  gained  my  feet.     Oh !  then 

I  wished  to  live, 


UNCLE  NEDS  TALE.  i/S 

'Twas  strange  the  strength  and  love  of  life  that 
standard  seemed  to  giveJ 

I  gazed  around :  far  down  the  vale  I  saw  a  camp- 
fire's  glow. 

With  wandering  step  I  ran  that  way,  —  I  recked 
not  friend  or  foe. 

Though  stumbling  now  o'er  heaps  of  dead,  now 
o'er  a  stiffened  horse, 

I  heeded  not,  but  watched  the  light,  and  held  my 
onward  course. 

But  soon  that  flash  of  strength  had  failed,  and 
checked  my  feverish  speed; 

Again  my  throat  was  all  ablaze,  my  wounds  began 
to  bleed. 

I  knew  that  if  I  fell  again,  my  chance  of  life  was 
gone, 

So,  leaning  on  the  standard-pole,  I  still  kept  strug 
gling  on. 

At  length  I  neared  the  camp-fire :  there  were  scar 
let  jackets  round, 

And  swords  and  brazen  helmets  lay  strewn  upon 
the  ground. 


1/6      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Some  distance  off,  in  order  ranged,  stood  men,— 
about  a  score  : 

0  God!  'twas  all  that  now  remained  of  my  old 

gallant  corps! 

The  muster-roll  was  being  called:  to  every  well- 
known  name 

1  heard  the  solemn  answer,  —  *  Dead ! '     At  length 

my  own  turn  came. 

I  paused  to  hear,  —  a  comrade  answered,  *  Dead  I 
I  saw  him  fall ! ' 

I  could  not  move  another  step,  I  tried  in  vain  to  call. 

My  life  was  flowing  fast,  and  all  around  was  gather 
ing  haze, 

And  o'er  the  heather  tops  I  watched  my  comrades' 
cheerful  blaze. 

I  thought  such  anguish  as  I  felt  was  more  than  man 
could  bear. 

0  God !  it  was  an  awful  thing  to  die  with  help  so 

near  I 

And  death  was  stealing  o'er  me :  with  the  strength 
of  wild  despair 

1  raised  the  standard  o'er  my  head,  and  waved  it 

through  the  air. 


UNCLE   NED  S   TALE. 

Then  all  grew  dim :  the  fire,  the  men,  all  vanished 

from  my  sight, 
My  senses  reeled ;  I  know  no  more  of  that  eventful 

night. 
'Twas  weeks  before  my  mind  came  back :  I  knew 

not  where  I  lay, 
But  kindly  hands  were  round  me,  and  old  comrades 

came  each  day. 
They  told  me  how  the  waving  flag  that  night  had 

caught  their  eye, 
And  how  they  found  me  bleeding  there,  and  thought 

that  I  must  die  ; 
They  brought  me  all  the  cheering  news,  —  the  war 

was  at  an  end. 
No  wonder  'twas,  with  all  their  care,  I  soon  began 

to  mend. 

The  General  came  to  see  me,  too,  with  all  his  bril 
liant  train, 
But  what  he  said,  or  how  I  felt,  to  tell  you  now 

'twere  vain. 
Enough,  I  soon  grew  strong  again :  the  wished-for 

route  had  come, 


SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

And  all  the  gallant  veteran   troops   set  out  with 

cheers  for  home. 
We  soon  arrived ;  and  then,  my  lad,  'twould  thrill 

your  heart  to  hear 
How  England  welcomed  home  her  sons  with  many 

a  ringing  cheer. 
But  tush !  what  boots  it  now  to  speak  of  what  was 

said  or  done  ? 
The  victory  was  dearly  bought,  our  bravest  hearts 

were  gone. 
Ere  long  the  King  reviewed  us.    Ah !  that  memory 

is  sweet ! 
They  made  me  bear  the  foreign  flag,  and  lay  it  at 

his  feet. 
I  parted  from  my  brave  old  corps :  'twere  matter, 

lad,  for  tears, 
To  leave  the  kind  old  comrades  I  had  ridden  with 

for  years. 
I  was  no  longer  fit  for  war,  my  wanderings  had  to 

cease. 
There,  boy,  I  've  told  you  all  my  tales.     Now  let 

me  smoke  in  peace." 


UNCLE    NEDS    TALE. 

How  vivid  grows  the  picture  now !    how  bright 

each  scene  appears ! 
I  trace  each  loved  and  long-lost  face  with  eyes  be- 

dimmed  in  tears. 
How  plain  I  hear  thee,  Uncle  Ned,  and  see  thy 

musing  look, 
Comparing  all  thy  glory  to  the  curling  wreaths  of 

smoke  ! 
A  truer,  braver  soldier  ne'er  for  king  and  country 

bled. 
His  wanderings  are  for  ever  o'er.     God  rest  thee, 

Uncle  Ned  I 


ISO      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 


UNCLE    NED'S     TALES. 

HOW   THE   FLAG   WAS    SAVED.* 

'/TVWAS  a  dismal  winter's  evening,  fast  without 

-*-      came  down  the  snow, 
But  within,  the  cheerful  fire  cast  a  ruddy,  genial 

glow 
O'er  our  pleasant  little  parlor,  that  was  then  my 

mother's  pride. 
There  she  sat  beside  the  glowing  grate,  my  sister 

by  her  side ; 
And  beyond,  within  the  shadow,  in  a  cosy  little 

nook 
Uncle  Ned  and  I  were  sitting,  and  in  whispering 

tones  we  spoke. 
I  was  asking  for  a  story  he  had  promised  me  to 

tell,— 

*  An  incident  from  the  record  of  the  Enniskillen  Dragoons  in 
Spain,  under  General  Picton. 


UNCLE  NED'S  TALES.  181 

Of  his  comrade,  old  Dick  Hilton,  how  he  fought 
and  how  he  fell ; 

And  with  eager  voice  I  pressed  him,  till  a  mighty 
final  cloud 

Blew  he  slowly,  then  upon  his  breast  his  grisly 
head  he  bowed, 

And,  musing,  stroked  his  gray  mustache  ere  he 
began  to  speak, 

Then  brushed  a  tear  that  stole  along  his  bronzed 
and  furrowed  cheek. 

"  Ah,  no !  I  will  not  speak  to-night  of  that  sad 
tale,"  he  cried : 

"  Some  other  time  I  '11  tell  you,  boy,  about  that 
splendid  ride. 

Your  words  have  set  me  thinking  of  the  many  care 
less  years 

That  comrade  rode  beside  me,  and  have  caused 
these  bitter  tears ; 

For  I  loved  him,  boy,  —  for  twenty  years  we  gal 
loped  rein  to  rein,  — 

In  peace  and  war,  through  all  that  time,  stanch 
comrades  had  we  been. 


l82      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

As  boys  we  rode  together  when  our  soldiering  first 

began, 
And  in  all  those  years  I  knew  him  for  a  true  and 

trusty  man. 
One  who  never  swerved  from  danger,  —  for  he  knew 

not  how  to  fear,  — 
If  grim   Death   arrayed  his  legions,  Dick  would 

charge  him  with  a  cheer. 

He  was  happiest  in  a  struggle  or  a  wild  and  dan 
gerous  ride : 
Every  inch  a  trooper  was  he,  and  he  cared  for 

naught  beside. 
He  was  known  for  many  a  gallant  deed  :  to-night 

I  '11  tell  you  one, 
And  no  braver  feat  of  arms  was  by  a  soldier  ever 

done. 
'Twas  when  we  were  young  and  fearless,  for  'twas 

in  our  first  campaign, 
When  we  galloped  through  the  orange  groves  and 

fields  of  sunny  Spain. 
Our  wary  old  commander  was  retiring  from  the 

foe, 


UNCLE    NEDS    TALES.  183 

Who  came  pressing  close  upon  us,  with  a  proud, 

exulting  show. 
We  could  hear  their  taunting  laughter,  and  within 

our  very  sight 
Did  they  ride  defiant  round  us, — ay,  and  dared  us 

to  the  fight. 
But  brave  old  Picton  heeded  not,  but  held  his 

backward  track, 
And  smiling  said  the  day  would  come  to  pay  the 

Frenchmen  back. 
And   come  it  did:  one  morning,  long  before  the 

break  of  day, 
We  were  standing  to  our  arms,  all  ready  for  the 

coining  fray. 
Soon  the  sun  poured  down  his  glory  on  the  hostile 

lines  arrayed, 
And  his  beams  went  flashing  brightly  back  from 

many  a  burnished  blade, 
Soon  to  change  its  spotless  lustre  for  a  reeking 

crimson  stain, 
In  some  heart,  then  throbbing  proudly,  that  will 

never  throb  again 


184      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

When  that  sun   has  reached  his  zenith,  life  and 

pride  will  then  have  fled, 
And  his   beams  will   mock  in  splendor  o'er  the 

ghastly  heaps  of  dead. 
Oh,  'tis  sad  to  think  how  many but  I  wander, 

lad,  I  fear ; 
And,  though  the  moral's  good,  I  guess  the  tale 

you  'd  rather  hear. 
Well,  I  said  that  we  were  ready,  and  the  foe  was 

ready, too ; 
Soon  the  fight  was  raging  fiercely,  —  thick  and  fast 

the  bullets  flew, 
With  a  bitter  hiss  of  malice,  as  if  hungry  for  the 

life 
To  be  torn  from  manly  bosoms  in  the  maddening 

heat  of  strife. 
Distant  batteries  were  thundering,  pouring  grape 

and  shell  like  rain, 
And  the  cruel  missiles  hurtled  with  their  load  of 

death  and  pain, 
Which  they  carried,  like  fell  demons,  to  the  heart 

of  some  brigade, 


UNCLE  NED'S  TALES.  185 

Where  the  sudden,  awful  stillness  told  the  havoc 

they  had  made. 
Thus  the  struggle  raged  till  noon,  and  neither  side 

could  vantage  show ; 
Then  the  tide  of  battle  turned,  and  swept  in  favor 

of  the  foe ! 
Fiercer    still    the     cannon     thundered,  —  wilder 

screamed  the  grape  and  shell,  — 
Onward  pressed  the  French  battalions,  —  back  the 

British  masses  fell ! 
Then,  as  on  its  prey  devoted,  fierce  the  hungered 

vulture  swoops, 
Swung  the  foeman's  charging  squadrons  down  upon 

our  broken  troops. 
Victory  hovered   o'er  their  standard,  —  on  they 

swept  with  maddened  shout, 
Spreading  death  and  havoc  round  them,  till  retreat 

was  changed  to  rout ! 
'Twas  a  saddening  sight  to  witness  ;   and,  when 

Picton  saw  them  fly, 
Grief  and  shame  were  mixed  and  burning  in  the 

old  commander's  eye. 


1 86      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

We  were  riding  iu  his  escort,  close  behind  him,  on 

a  height 
Which   the    fatal    field  commanded;    thence  we 

viewed  the  growing  flight. 

"  But,  my  lad,  I  now  must  tell  you  something  more 
about  that  hill, 

And  I  '11  try  to  make  you  see  the  spot  as  I  can  see 
it  still. 

Right  before  us,  o'er  the  battle-field,  the  fall  was 
sheer  and  steep ; 

On  our  left  the  ground  fell  sloping,  in  a  pleasant, 
grassy  sweep, 

Where  the  aides  went  dashing  swiftly,  bearing 
orders  to  and  fro, 

For  by  that  sloping  side  alone  they  reached  the 
plain  below. 

On  our  right  —  now  pay  attention,  boy  —  a  yawn 
ing  fissure  lay, 

As  if  an  earthquake's  shock  had  split  the  moun 
tain's  side  away. 

And  in  the  dismal  gulf,  far  down,  we  heard  the 
angry  roar 


UNCLE  NED'S  TALES.  187 

Of  a  foaming  mountain  torrent,  that,  mayhap,  the 

cleft  had  wore, 
As  it  rushed  for  countless  ages  through  its  black 

and  secret  lair ; 
But  no   matter  how   'twas  formed,  my  lad,  the 

yawning  gulf  was  there. 
And  from  the  farther  side  a  stone  projected  o'er  the 

gorge,  — 
'Twas  strange  to  see  the  massive  rock  just  balanced 

on  the  verge ; 
It  seemed  as  if  an  eagle's  weight  the  ponderous 

mass  of  stone 
Would  topple  from  its  giddy  height,  and  send  it 

crashing  down. 
It  stretched  far  o'er  the  dark  abyss ;  but,  though 

'twere  footing  good, 
'Twas  twenty  feet  or  more  from  off  the  side  on 

which  we  stood. 
Beyond  the  cleft  a  gentle  slope  went  down  and 

joined  the  plain,  — 
Now,  lad,  back  to   where   we  halted,  and  again 

resume  the  rein. 


1 88      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

I  said  our  troops  were  routed.     Far  and  near  they 

broke  and  fled, 
The  grape-shot  tearing  through  them,  leaving  lanes 

of  mangled  dead. 
All  order  lost,  they  left   the  fight,  —  they  threw 

their  arms  away, 
And  joined  in  one  wild  panic  rout,  —  ah  !  'twas  a 

bitter  day ! 

"  But  did  I  say  that  all  was  lost  ?     Nay,  one  brave 

corps  stood  fast, 
Determined  they  would  never  fly,  but  fight  it  to 

the  last. 
They  barred   the  Frenchman  from  his  prey,  and 

his  whole  fury  braved,  — 
One  brief  hour  could  they  hold  their  ground,  the 

army  might  be  saved. 
Fresh  troops  were  hurrying  to  our  aid,  —  we  saw 

their  glittering  head,  — 
Ah,  God !  how  those  brave  hearts  were  raked  by 

the  death-shower  of  lead ! 
But  stand  they  did  :  they  never  flinched  nor  took 

one  backward  stride, 


UNCLE   NED'S   TALES.  189 

They  sent  their  bayonets   home,  and   then  with 

stubborn  courage  died. 
But  few  were  left  of  that  brave  band  when  the 

dread  hour  had  passed, 
Still,  faint  and  few,  they  held  their  flag  above  them 

to  the  last. 
But  now  a  cloud   of   horsemen,  like   a  shadowy 

avalanche, 
Sweeps  down :  as  Picton  sees  them,  e'en  his  cheek 

is  seen  to  blanch. 
They  were  not  awed,  that  little  band,  but  rallied 

once  again, 
And  sent  us  back  a  farewell  cheer.     Then  burst 

from  reckless  men 
The  anguished  cry,  '  God  help  them  ! '  as  we  saw 

the  feeble  flash 
Of  their  last  defiant  volley,  when  upon  them  with 

a  crash 
Burst  the  gleaming  lines  of  riders,  —  one  by  one 

they  disappear, 
And  the  chargers'  hoofs  are  trampling  on  the  last 

of  that  brave  square  ! 


SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Oa  swept  the  squadrons !  Then  we  looked  where 
last  the  band  was  seen : 

A  scarlet  heap  was  all  that  marked  the  place  where 
they  had  been  1 

Still  forward  spurred  the  horsemen,  eager  to  com 
plete  the  rout; 

But  our  lines  had  been  re-formed  now,  and  five 
thousand  guns  belched  out 

A  reception  to  the  squadronsj — rank  on  rank  was 
piled  that  day, 

Every  bullet  hissed  out  *  Vengeance  ! '  as  it  whis 
tled  on  its  way. 

"  And  now  it  was,  with  maddened  hearts,  we  saw 

a  galling  sight : 
A  French  hussar  was  riding  close  beneath  us  on 

the  right,  — 
He  held  a  British  standard !     With  insulting  shout 

he  stood, 
And  waved   the  flag, — its  heavy    folds   drooped 

down  with  shame  and  blood,  — 
The  blood  of  hearts  unconquered :  'twas  the  flag 

of  the  stanch  corps 


UNCLE    NED  S   TALES.  19! 

That  had  fought  to  death  beneath  it,  —  it  was  heavy 

with  their  gore. 
The   foreign   dog !    I  see   him   as  he    holds    the 

standard  down, 
And  makes  his  charger  trample  on  its  colors  and 

its  crown ! 
But  his  life  soon  paid  the  forfeit:  with  a  cry  of 

rage  and  pain, 
Hilton  dashes  from  the  escort,  like  a  tiger  from  his 

chain. 
Nought  he  sees  but  that  insulter ;  and  he  strikes 

his  frightened  horse 
With  his  clenched  hand,  and  spurs  him,  with  a 

bitter-spoken  curse, 
Straight  as  bullet  from  a  rifle — but,  great  Lord! 

he  has  not  seen, 
In  his  angry  thirst  for  vengeance,  the  black  gulf 

that  lies  between ! 
All  our  warning  shouts  unheeded,  starkly  on  he 

headlong  rides, 
And  lifts  his  horse,  with  bloody  spurs  deep  buried 

in  his  sides. 


SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

God's  mercy  !  does  he  see  the  gulf?     Ha  !  now  his 

purpose  dawns 
Upon  our  minds,  as  nearer  still  the  rocky  fissure 

yawns : 
Where  from  the  farther  side  the  stone  leans  o'er 

the  stream  beneath, 
He  means  to   take  the  awful  leap!     Cold  horror 

checks  our  breath, 
And  still  and  mute  we  watch  him  now :  he  nears 

the  fearful  place  ; 
We  hear  him  shout  to  cheer  the  horse,  and  keep 

the  headlong  pace. 
Then  comes  a  rush,  —  short  strides,  —  a  blow !  — 

the  horse  bounds  wildly  on, 
Springs   high   in   air  o'er   the   abyss,    and   lands 

upon  the  stone! 
It  trembles,  topples  'neath  their  weight !  it  sinks ! 

ha !  bravely  done  ! 

Another  spring,  —  they  gain  the  side,  —  the  pon 
derous  rock  is  gone 
With  crashing  roar,  a  thousand  feet,  down  to  the 

flood  below, 


UNCLE    NED  S    TALES.  1 93 

And  Hilton,  heedless  of  its  noise,  is  riding  at  the 
foe! 

"  The  Frenchman  stared  in  wonder :  he  was  brave, 
and  would  not  run, 

'Twould  merit  but  a  coward's  brand  to  turn  and 
fly  from  one. 

But  still  he  shuddered  at  the  glance  from  'neath 
that  knitted  brow : 

He  knew  'twould  be  a  death  fight,  but  there  was 
no  shrinking  now. 

He  pressed  his  horse  to  meet  the  shock :  straight  at 
him  Hilton  made, 

And  as  they  closed  the  Frenchman's  cut  fell  harm 
less  on  his  blade ; 

But  scarce  a  moment's  time  had  passed  ere,  spur 
ring  from  the  field, 

A  troop  of  cuirassiers  closed  round  and  called  on 
him  to  yield. 

One  glance  of  scorn  he  threw  them,  —  all  his  answer 
in  a  frown,  — 

And  riding  at  their  leader  with  one  sweep  he  cut 
him  down ; 


194      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Then  aimed  at  him  who  held  the  flag  a  cut  of 

crushing  might, 
And  split  him  to  the  very  chin  !  —  a  horri^,  ghastly 

sight ! 
He  seized  the  standard  from  his  hand ;   but  now 

the  Frenchmen  close, 
And   that  stout  soldier,  .all  alone,  fights  with  a 

hundred  foes ! 

They  cut  and  cursed,  —  a  dozen  swords  were  whis 
tling  round  his  head ; 
He  could  not  guard  on  every  side,  —  from  fifty 

wounds  he  bled. 
His   sabre   crashed  through  helm   and  blade,   as 

though  it  were  a  mace  ; 
He  cut  their  steel  cuirasses  and  he  slashed  them 

o'er  the  face. 
One  tall  dragoon  closed  on  him,  but  he  wheeled 

his  horse  around, 
And  cloven  through  the  helmet  went  the  trooper 

to  the  ground. 
But  his  sabre  blade  was  broken  by  the  fury  of  the 

blow, 


UNCLE    NED  S    TALES.  IQ5 

,\nd  he  hurled  the  useless,  bloody  hilt  against  the 

nearest  foe ; 
Then  furled  the  colors  round  the  pole,  and,  like  a 

levelled  lance, 
He  charged  with  that  red  standard,  through  the 

bravest  troops  of  France ! 
His  horse,  as  lion-hearted,  scarcely  needed  to  be 

urged, 
And  steed  and  rider  bit  the  dust  before  him  as  he 

charged. 
Straight  on  he  rode,  and  down  they  went,  till  he 

had  cleared  the  ranks, 
Then  once  again  he  loosed  the  rein  and  struck  his 

horse's  flanks. 
A  cheer  broke  from  the  French  dragoons,  —  a  loud, 

admiring  shout !  — 
As  off  he  rode,  and  o'er  him  shook  the  tattered 

colors  out. 
Still  might  they  ride  him  down :  they  scorned  to  fire 

or  to  pursue,  — 
Brave  hearts !  they  cheered   him   to  our  lines,  — 

their  army  cheering,  too  ! 


196      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

And  we  —  what  did  we  do  ?  you  ask.    Well,  boy, 

we  did  not  cheer, 
Nor  not  one  sound  of  welcome  reached  our  hero 

comrade's  ear ; 
But,  as  he  rode  along  the  ranks,  each  soldier's  head 

was  bare,  — 

Our  hearts  were  far  too  full  for  cheers,  —  we  wel 
comed  him  with  prayer. 
Ah  !  boy,  we  loved  that  dear  old  flag,  —  ay,  loved 

it  so,  we  cried 
Like  children,  as  we  saw  it  wave  in  all  its  tattered 

pride ! 
No,  boy,  ncrcheers  to  greet  him,  though  he  played 

a  noble  part,  — 
We  only  prayed  '  God  bless  him ! '  but  that  prayer 

came  from  the  heart. 
He  knew  we  loved  him  for  it,  —  he  could  see  it  in 

our  tears,  — 
And  such  silent  earnest  love  as  that  is  better,  boy, 

than  cheers. 
Next  day  we  fought  the  Frenchman,  and  we  drove 

him  back,  of  course, 


UNCLE  NED'S  TALES.  1 97 

Though  we  lost  some  goodly  soldiers,  and  old  Pic- 
ton  lost  a  horse. 

But  there  I  've  said  enough :  your  mother's  warn 
ing  finger  shook,  — 

Mind,  never  be  a  soldier,  boy!  —  now  let  me  have 
a  smoke." 


198      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 


HAUNTED  BY  TIGERS. 

TVTATHAN  BEANS  and  William  Lambert  were 

two  wild  New  England  boys, 
Known  from  infancy  to   revel  only  in  forbidden 

joys. 
Many  a  mother  of  Nantucket  bristled  when  she 

heard  them  come, 
With  a  horrid  skulking  whistle,  tempting  her  good 

lad  from  home. 
But  for  all  maternal  bristling  little  did  they  seem  to 

care, 

And  they  loved  each  other  dearly,  did  this  good-for- 
nothing  pair. 

So  they  lived  till  eighteen  summers  found  them  in 
the  same  repute,  — 

They  had  well-developed  muscles,  and  loose  char 
acters  to  boot. 


HAUNTED    BY   TIGERS.  199 

Then  they  did  what  wild  Nantucket  boys  have 

never  failed  to  do, — 
Went  and  filled  two  oily  bunks  among  a  whaler's 

oily  crew. 
And  the  mothers,  —  ah !   they  raised  their  hands 

and  blessed  the  lucky  day, 
While  Nantucket  waved  its  handkerchief  to  see 

them  sail  away. 

On  a  four  years'  cruise  they  started  in  the  brave  old 

"  Patience  Parr," 

And  were  soon  initiated  in  the  mysteries  of  tar. 
There  they  found  the  truth  that  whalers'  tales  are 

unsubstantial  wiles,— 
They  were  sick  and  sore  and  sorry  ere  they  passed 

the  Western  Isles ; 
And  their   captain,   old-man   Sculpin,  gave   their 

fancies  little  scope, 
For  he  argued  with  a  marlinspike  and  reasoned 

with  a  rope. 

But  they  stuck  together  bravely,  they  were  Ish- 
maels  with  the  crew: 


2OO      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Nathan's  voice  was  never  raised  but  Bill's  support 

was  uttered  too  ; 
And  whenever  Beans  was  floored  by  Sculpin's  cruel 

marlinspike, 
Down  beside  him  went  poor  Lambert,  for  his  hand 

was  clenched  to  strike. 

So  they  passed  two  years  in  cruising,  till  one  breath 
less  burning  day 
The  old  "Patience  Parr"  in  Sunda  Straits*  with 

flapping  canvas  lay. 
On  her  starboard  side  Sumatra's  woods  were  dark 

beneath  the  glare, 
And  on  her  port  stretched  Java,  slumbering  in  the 

yellow  air,  — 
Slumbering  as  the  jaguar  slumbers,  as  the  tropic 

ocean  sleeps, 
Smooth  and  smiling  on  its  surface  with  a  devil  in 

its  deeps. 
So  swooned  Java's  moveless  forest,  but  the  jungle 

round  its  root 


*  The  Straits  of  Sunda,  seven  miles  wide  at  the  southern  extremity,  lie 
between  Sumatra  and  Java. 


HAUNTED    BY    TIGERS.  2OI 

Knew  the  rustling  anaconda  and  the  tiger's  padded 

foot. 
There  in  Nature's  rankest  garden,  Nature's  worst 

alone  is  rife, 
And  a  glorious  land  is  wild-beast  ruled  for  want  of 

human  life. 
Scarce  a  harmless  thing  moved  on  it,  not  a  living 

soul  was  near 

From  the  frowning  rocks  of  Java  Head  right  north 
ward  to  Anjier. 
Crestless  swells,  like  wind-raised  canvas,  made  the 

whaler  rise  and  dip, 
Else    she    Tay    upon   the    water   like   a  paralytic 

ship; 
And  beneath  a  topsail  awning  lay  the  lazy,  languid 

crew, 
Drinking  in  the  precious  coolness  of  the  shadow,  — 

all  save  two : 
Two  poor  Ishmaels,  —  they  were  absent,  Heaven 

help  them  !  —  roughly  tied 
'Neath  the  blistering  cruel  sun-glare  in  the  fore- 

cliains,  side  by  side. 


2O2      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Side  by  side  as  it  was  always,  each  -one  with  a 

word  of  cheer 
For  the  other,  and  for  his  sake  bravely  choking 

back  the  tear. 
Side  by  side,  their  pain  or  pastime  never  yet  seemed 

good  for  one ; 
But  whenever  pain  came,  each  in  secret  wished  the 

other  gone. 

You  who  stop  at  home  and  saunter  o'er  your  flower- 
scattered  path, 

With  life's  corners  velvet-cushioned,  have  you  seen 
a  tyrant's  wrath  ?  — 

Wrath,  the  rude  and  reckless  demon,  not.  the 
drawing-room  display 

Of  an  anger  led  by  social  lightning-rods  upon  its 
way. 

Ah  !  my  friends,  wrath's  raw  materials  on  the  land 
may  sometimes  be, 

But  the  manufactured  article  is  only  found  at  sea. 

And  the  wrath  of  old-man  Sculpin  was  of  texture 
Number  One : 


HAUNTED   BY   TIGERS.  2O3 

Never  absent,  —  when  the  man  smiled  it  was  hid 
den,  but  not  gone. 

Old  church-members  of  Nantucket  knew  him  for  a 
shining  lamp, 

But  his  chronic  Christian  spirit  was  of  pharisaic 
stamp. 

When  ashore,  he  prayed  aloud  of  how  he  'd  sinned 
and  been  forgiven,  — 

How  his  evil  ways  had  brought  him  'thin  an  ace  of 
losing  heaven ; 

Thank  the  Lord !  his  eyes  were  opened,  and  so  on  j 
but  when  the  ship 

Was  just  ready  for  a  voyage,  you  could  see  old 
Sculpin's  lip 

Have  a  sort  of  nervous  tremble,  like  a  carter's  long- 
leashed  whip 

Ere  it  cracks ;  and  so  the  skipper's  lip  was  trem 
bling  for  an  oath 

At  the  watch  on  deck  for  idleness,  the  watch  below 
for  sloth, 

For  the  leash  of  his  anathemas  was  long  enough  for 
both. 


2O4      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Well,  'twas  burning   noon   off  Java:   Beans   and 

Lambert  in  the  chains 
Sank  their  heads,  and  all  was  silent  but  the  voices 

of  their  pains. 
Night  came  ere  their  bonds  were  loosened;  then 

the  boys  sank  down  and  slept, 
And  the   dew  in  place   of  loved  ones  on  their 

wounded  bodies  wept. 

All  was  still  within  the  whaler,  —  on  the  sea  no 

fanning  breeze, 
And  the  moon  alone  was  moving  over  Java's  gloomy 

trees. 
Midnight  came,  —  one  sleeper's  waking  glance  went 

out  the  moon  to  meet : 
Nathan  rose,  and  turned  from  Lambert,  who  still 

slumbered  at  his  feet. 
Out  toward  Java  went  his  vision,  as  if  something 

in  the  air 
Came  with  promises  of  kindness  and  of  peace  to 

be  found  there. 


HAUNTED    BY   TIGERS.  2O5 

Then  towards  the  davits  moved  he,  where  the 
lightest  whale-boat  hung; 

And  he  worked  with  silent  caution  till  upon  the 
sea  she  swung, 

When  he  paused,  and  looked  at  Lambert,  and  the 
spirit  in  him  cried 

Not  to  leave  him,  but  to  venture,  as  since  child 
hood,  side  by  side ; 

And  the  spirit's  cry  was  answered,  for  he  touched 
the  sleeper's  lip, 

Who  awoke  and  heard  of  Nathan's  plan  to  leave 

th'  accursed  ship. 

* 

When  'twas  told,  they  rose  in  silence,  and  looked 

outward  to  the  land, 
But  they  only  saw  Nantucket,  with  its  homely, 

boat-lined  strand ; 
But  they  saw  it  —  oh!   so  plainly  —  through  the 

glass  of  coming  doom. 
Then  they  crept  into  the  whale-boat,  and  pulled 

toward  the  forest's  gloom, — 
All   their  suffering   clear   that  moment,  like  the 

moonlight  on  their  wake, 


2O6      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Now  contracting,  now  expanding,  like  a  phospho 
rescent  snake. 

Hours  speed  on :  the  dark  horizon  yet  shows  scarce 
a  streak  of  gray 

When  old  Sculpin  comes  on  deck  to  walk  his  rest 
lessness  away. 

All  the  scene  is  still  and  solemn,  and  mayhap  the 
man's  cold  heart 

Feels  its  teaching,  for  the  wild-beast  cries  from 
shoreward  make  him  start 

As  if  they  had  warning  in  them,  and  he  o'er  its 
meaning  pored, 

Till  at  length  one  shriek  from  Java  splits  the  dark 
ness  like  a  sword ; 

And  he  almost  screams  in  answer,  such  the  nearness 
of  the  cry, 

As  he  clutches  at  the  rigging  with  a  horror  in  his 
eye* 

And  with  faltering  accents  mutters,  as  against  the 
mast  he  leans, 

"  Darn  the  tigers  !  that  one  shouted  with  the  voice  of 
Nathan  Beans!" 


HAUNTED   BY   TIGERS.  2O/ 

When  the  boys  were  missed  soon  after,  Sculpin 

never  breathed  a  word 
Of  his  terror  in  the  morning  at  the  fearful  sound 

he'd  heard; 
But  he  entered  in  the  log-book,  and  'twas  witnessed 

by  the  mates, 
Just  their  names,  and  following  after,  "  Ran  away 

in  Sunda  Straits." 

Two  years  after,  Captain  Sculpin  saw  again  the 

Yankee  shore, 
With  the  comfortable  feeling  that  he  'd  go  to  sea  no 

more. 
And  'twas  strange  the  way  he  altered  when  he  saw 

Nantucket  light : 
Holy  lines  spread  o'er  his  face,  and  chased  the  old 

ones  out  of  sight. 
And  for  many  a  year  thereafter  did  his  zeal  spread 

far  and  wide, 
And  with  all  his  pious  doings  was  the  township 

edified; 


2O8      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

For  be  led  the  sacred  singing  in  an  unctuous,  nasal 

tone, 
And  he  looked  as  if  the  sermon  and  the  Scriptures 

were  his  own. 

But  one  day  the  white-haired  preacher  spoke  of 

how  God's  justice  fell 
Soon  or  late  with  awful  sureness  on  the  man  whose 

heart  could  tell 
Of  a  wrong  done  to  the  widow  or  the  orphan,  and 

he  said 
That  such  wrongs  were  ever  living,  though  the 

injured  ones  were  dead. 
And  old  Sculpin's  heart  was  writhing,  though  his 

heavy  eyes  were  closed, — 
For,  despite  his  solemn  sanctity,  at  sermon  times  he 

dozed  ; 
But  his  half-awakened  senses  heard  the  preacher 

speak  of  death 
And  of  wrongs  done  unto  orphans,  and  he  dreamed 

with  wheezing  breath 


HAUNTED   BY   TIGERS.  2CX) 

That  cold  hands  were  tearing  from  his  heart  its 

pharisaic  screens, 
That  the  preacher  was  a  tiger  with  the  voice  of 

Nathan  Beans! 
And  he  shrieked  and  jumped  up  wildly,  and  upon 

the  seat  stood  he, 
As  if  standing  on  the  whaler  looking  outward  on 

the  sea; 
And  he  clutched  as  at  the  rigging  with  a  horror  in 

his  eye, 
For  he  saw  the  woods  of  Java  and  he  heard  that 

human  cry, 
As  he  crouched  and  cowered  earthward.     And  the 

simple  folk  around 
Stood  with  looks  of  kindly  sympathy :  they  raised 

him  from  the  ground, 

And  they  brought  him  half  unconscious  to  the  hum 
ble  chapel  door, 
Whence  he  fled  as  from  a  scourging,  and  he  entered 

it  no  more ; 
For  the  sight  of  that  old  preacher  brought  the 

horror  to  his  face, 


2IO      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

And  he  dare  not  meet  his  neighbors'  honest  eyes 

within  the  place, 
For  his  conscience  like  a  mirror  rose  and  showed 

the  dismal  scenes, 
Where  the  tiger  yelled  for  ever  with  the  voice  of 

Nathan  Beans. 


WESTERN  AUSTRALIA. 


Nation  of  sun  and  sin, 
Thy  flowers  and  crimes  are  red, 
And  thy  heart  is  sore  within 
While  the  glory  crowns  thy  head. 
Land  of  the  songless  birds, 
What  was  thine  ancient  crime, 
Burning  through  lapse  of  time 
Like  a  prophet' 's  cursing  words  ? 

Aloes  and  myrrh  and  tears 
Mix  in  thy  bitter  wine  : 
Drink,  while  the  cup  is  thine, 
Drink,  for  the  draught  is  sign 
Of  thy  reign  in  the  coming  years. 


PROLOGUE. 


Nor  gold  nor  silver  are  the  words  set  here, 

Nor  rich-wrought  chasing  on  design  of  art; 
But  rugged  relics  of  an  unknown  sphere 

Where  fortune  chanced  I  played  one  time  a  part. 
Unthought  of  here  the  critic  blame  or  praise, 

These  recollections  all  their  faults  atone; 
To  hold  the  scenes,  Fve  writ  of  men  and  ways 

Uncouth  and  rough  as  Austral  ironstone. 

It  may  be,  I  have  left  the  higher  gleams 

Of  skies  and  flowers  unheeded  or  forgot  / 
It  may  be  so,  —  but,  looking  back,  it  seems 

When  I  was  with  them  I  beheld  them  not. 
I  was  no  rambling  poet,  but  a  man 

Sard-pressed  to  dig  and  delve,  with  naught  of  ease 
The  hot  day  through,  save  when  the  evening's  fan 

Of  sea-winds  rustled  thrmtgh  the  kindly  trees. 

It  may  be  so  ;  but  when  I  think  I  smile 

At  my  poor  hand  and  brain  to  paint  the  charms 

Of  God1  s  Jirst-blazoned  canvas!  here  the  aisle 
Moonlit  and  deep  of  reaching  yothic  arms 


From  towering  gum,   mahogany,  and  palm, 
And  odorous  jam  and  sandal ;  there  the  growth 

Of  arm-long  velvet  leaves  grown  hoar  in  calm,  — 
In  calm  unbroken  since  their  luscious  youth. 

How  can  I  show  you  aU  the  silent  birds 

With  strange  metallic  glintings  on  the  wing  f 
Or  how  tell  half  their  sadness  in  cold  words,  — 

The  poor  dumb  lutes,  the  birds  that  never  sing  ? 
Of  wondrous  parrot-greens  and  iris  hue 

Of  sensuous  flower  and  of  gleaming  snake,  — 
Ah  !  what  1  see  I  long  that  so  might  you, 

But  of  these  things  what  picture  can  1  make  f 

Sometime,  maybe,  a  man  will  wander  there,  — 

A  mind  God-gifted,  and  not  dull  and  weak  ; 
And  he  will  come  and  paint  that  land  so  fair, 

And  show  the  beauties  of  which  I  but  speak. 
But  in  the  hard,  sad  days  that  there  I  spent, 

My  mind  absorbed  rude  pictures :  these  1  show 
As  best  I  may,  and  just  with  this  intent,  — 

To  tell  some  things  that  all  folk  may  not  know. 


WESTERN    AUSTRALIA. 

/^\  BEAUTEOUS  Southland!  land  of  yellow 
air, 

That  hangeth  o'er  thee  slumbering,  and  doth  hold 
The  moveless  foliage  of  thy  valleys  fair 

And  wooded  hills,  like  aureole  of  gold. 

O  thou,  discovered  ere  the  fitting  time, 
Ere  Nature  in  completion  turned  thee  forth  I 

Ere  aught  was  finished  but  thy  peerless  clime, 
Thy  virgin  breath  allured  the  amorous  North. 

O  land,  God  made  thee  wondrous  to  the  eye  ! 

But  His  sweet  singers  thou  hast  never  heard ; 
He  left  thee,  meaning  to  come  by-and-bye, 

And  give  rich  voice  to  every  bright-winged  bird. 

215 


2l6      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

He  painted  with  fresh  hues  thy  myriad  flowers, 
But  left  them  scentless :  ah !  their  woful  dole, 

Like  sad  reproach  of  their  Creator's  powers,  — 
To  make  so  sweet  fair  bodies,  void  of  soul. 

He  gave  thee  trees  of  odorous  precious  wood  ; 

But,  midst  them  all,  bloomed  not  one  tree  of  fruit. 
He  looked,  but  said  not  that  His  work  was  good , 

When  leaving  thee  all  perfumeless  and  mute. 

He  blessed  thy  flowers  with  honey :  every  bell 
Looks  earthward,  sunward,  with  a  yearning  wist ; 

But  no  bee-lover  ever  notes  the  swell 

Of  hearts,  like  lips,  a-hungering  to  be  kist. 

O  strange  land,  thou  art  virgin !  thou  art  more 
Than  fig-tree  barren !  Would  that  I  could  paint 

For  others'  eyes  the  glory  of  the  shore 
Where  last  I  saw  thee ;  but  the  senses  faint 


WESTERN    AUSTRALIA.  2 1/ 

In  soft  delicious  dreaming  when  they  drain 
Thy  wine  of  color.     Virgin  fair  thou  art, 

All  sweetly  fruitful,  waiting  with  soft  pain 

The  spouse  who  comes  to  wake  thy  sleeping 
heart. 


21 8      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 


THE  DUKITE   SNAKE: 

A   WEST   AUSTRALIAN   BUSHMAN'S    STORY. 

"\  T  7ELL,  mate,  you  've  asked  me  about  a  fellow 

You  met  to-day,  in  a  black-and-yellow 
Chain-gang  suit,  with  a  pedler's  pack, 
Or  with  some  such  burden,  strapped  to  his  back. 
Did  you  meet  him  square  ?     No,  passed  you  by  ? 
"Well,  if  you  had,  and  had  looked  in  his  eye, 
You  'd  have  felt  for  your  irons  then  and  there ; 
For  the  light  in  his  eye  is  a  madman's  glare. 
Ay,  mad,  poor  fellow !     I  know  him  well, 
And  if  you  're  not  sleepy  just  yet,  I  '11  tell 
His  story,  —  a  strange  one  as  ever  you  heard 
Or  read ;  but  I  '11  vouch  for  it,  every  word. 

You  just  wait  a  minute,  mate :  I  must  see 
How  that  damper 's  doing,  and  make  some  tea. 


THE    DUKITE    SNAKE.  2 19 

You  smoke  ?    That 's  good ;  for  there  's  plenty  of 

weed 

In  that  wallaby  skin.     Does  your  horse  feed 
In  the  hobbles  ?     Well,  he  's  got  good  feed  here, 
And  my  own  old  bushmare  won't  interfere. 
Done   with  that  meat?     Throw  it  there  to  the 

dogs, 
And  fling  on  a  couple  of  banksia  logs. 

And  now  for  the  story.  •  That  man  who  goes 
Through  the  bush  with  the  pack  and  the  convict's 

clothes 

Has  been  mad  for  years ;  but  he  does  no  harm, 
And  our  lonely  settlers  feel  no  alarm 
"\\rhen  they  see  or  meet  him.     Poor  Dave  Sloane 
Was  a  settler  once,  and  a  friend  of  my  own. 
Some  eight  years  back,  in  the  spring  of  the  year, 
Dave  came  from  Scotland,  and  settled  here. 
A  splendid  young  fellow  he  was  just  then, 
And  one  of  the  bravest  and  truest  men 
That  I  ever  met :  he  was  kind  as  a  woman 
To  all  who  needed  a  friend,  and  no  man  — 


22O      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Not  even  a  convict  —  met  with  his  scorn, 

For  David  Sloane  was  a  gentleman  born. 

Ay,  friend,  a  gentleman,  though  it  sounds  queer  : 

There 's  plenty  of  blue  blood  flowing  out  here, 

And  some  younger  sons  of  your  "  upper  ten  " 

Can  be  met  with  here,  first-rate  bushmen. 

Why,  friend,  I — 

Bah !  curse  that  dog  I     you  seti 
This  talking  so  much  has  affected  me. 

"Well,  Sloane  came  here  with  an  axe  and  a  gun ; 

He  bought  four  miles  of  a  sandal-wood  run. 

This  bush  at  that  time  was  a  lonesome  place, 

So  lonesome  the  sight  of  a  white  man's  face 

Was  a  blessing,  unless  it  came  at  night, 

And  peered  in  your  hut,  with  the  cunning  fright 

Of  a  runaway  convict ;  and  even  they 

Were  welcome,  for  talk's  sake,  while  they  could 

stay. 

Dave  lived  with  me  here  for  a  while,  and  learned 
The  tricks  of  the  bush,  —  how  the  snare  was  laid 
In  the  wallaby  track,  how  traps  were  made, 


THE    DUKITE    SNAKE.  221 

flow  'possums  and  kangaroo  rats  were  killed ; 

And  when  that  was  learned,  I  helped  him  to  build 

From  mahogany  slabs  a  good  bush  hut, 

And  showed  him  how  sandal- wood  logs  were  cut. 

I  lived  up  there  with  him  days  and  days, 

For  I  loved  the  lad  for  his  honest  ways. 

I  had  only  one  fault  to  find :  at  first 

Dave  worked  too  hard ;  for  a  lad  who  was  nursed. 

As  he  was,  in  idleness,  it  was  strange 

How  he  cleared  that  sandal-wood  off  his  range. 

From  the  morning  light  till  the  light  expired 

He  was  always  working,  he  never  tired ; 

Till  at  length  I  began  to  think  his  will 

Was  too  much  settled  on  wealth,  and  still 

When  I  looked  at  the  lad's  brown  face,  and  eye 

Clear  open,  my  heart  gave  such  thought  the  lie. 

But  one  day  —  for  he  read  my  mind  —  he  laid 

His  hand  on  my  shoulder  :  "  Don't  be  afraid," 

Said  he,  "  that  I  'm  seeking  alone  for  pelf. 

I  work  hard,  friend  ;  but  'tis  not  for  myself." 

And  he  told  me  then,  in  his  quiet  tone, 
Of  a  girl  in  Scotland,  who  was  his  own,  — 


222      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

His  wife,  —  'twas  for  her :  'twas  all  he  could  say, 
And  his  clear  eye  brimmed  as  he  turned  away. 
After  that  he  told  me  the  simple  tale  : 
They  had  married  for  love,  and  she  was  to  sail 
For  Australia  when  he  wrote  home  and  told 
The  oft-watched-for  story  of  finding  gold. 

In  a  year  he  wrote,  and  his  news  was  good : 
He  had  bought  some  cattle  and  sold  his  wood. 
He  said,  "  Darling,  I  've  only  a  hut,  —  but  come." 
Friend,  a  husband's  heart  is  a  true  wife's  home  ; 
And  he  knew  she  'd  come.  Then  he  turned  his  hand 
To  make  neat  the  house,  and  prepare  the  land 
For  his  crops  and  vines ;  and  he  made  that  place 
Put  on  such  a  smiling  and  homelike  face, 
That  when  she  came,  and  he  showed  her  round 
His  sandal-wood  and  his  crops  in  the  ground, 
And  spoke  of  the  future,  they  cried  for  joy, 
The  husband's  arm  clasping  his  wife  and  boy. 

Well,  friend,  if  a  little  of  heaven's  best  bliss 
Ever  comes  from  the  upper  world  to  this, 


THE    DUKITE    SNAKE.  223 

It  came  into  that  manly  bushman's  life, 
And  circled  him  round  with  the  arms  of  his  wife. 
God  bless  that  bright  memory !     Even  to  me, 
A  rough,  lonely  man,  did  she  seem  to  be, 
While  living,  an  angel  of  God's  pure  love, 
And  now  I  could  pray  to  her  face  above. 
And  David  he  loved  her  as  only  a  man 
With  a  heart  as  large  as  was  his  heart  can. 
I  wondered  how  they  could  have  lived  apart, 
For  he  was  her  idol,  and  she  his  heart. 

Friend,  there  isn't  much  more  of  the  tale  to  tell : 
I  was  talking  of  angels  awhile  since.     Well, 
Now  I  '11  change  to  a  devil,  —  ay,  to  a  devil  I 
You  need  n't  start :  if  a  spirit  of  evil 
Ever  came  to  this  world  its  hate  to  slake 
On  mankind,  it  came  as  a  Dukite  Snake. 

Like  ?     Like  the  pictures  you  've  seen  of  Sin, 
A  long  red  snake,  —  as  if  what  was  Avithin 
Was   fire    that   gleamed    through   his   glistening 
skin. 


224      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

And  his  eyes !  —  if  you  could  go  down  to  hell 
And  come  back  to  your  fellows  here  and  tell 
What  the  fire  was  like,  you  could  find  no  thing, 
Here  below  on  the  earth,  or  up  in  the  sky, 
To  compare  it  to  but  a  Dukite's  eye ! 

Now,  mark  you,  these  Dukites  don't  go  alone : 
There 's  another  near  when  you  see  but  one ; 
And  beware  you  of  killing  that. one  you  see 
Without  finding  the  other ;  for  you  may  be 
More  than  twenty  miles  from  the  spot  that  night, 
When  camped,  but  you  're  tracked  by  the  lone 

Dukite, 

That  will  follow  your  trail  like  Death  or  Fate, 
And  kill  you  as  sure  as  you  killed  its  mate  I 

Well,  poor  Dave  Sloane  had  his  young  wife  here 
Three  months,  —  'twas  just  this  time  of  the  year. 
He  had  teamed  some  sandal-wood  to  the  Vasse, 
And  was  homeward  bound,  when  he  saw  in  the 

grass 
A  long  red  snake :  he  had  never  been  told 


THE    DUKITE    SNAKE.  225 

Of  the  Dukite's  ways,  — he  jumped  to  the  road, 
And  smashed  its  flat  head  with  the  bullock-goad  ! 

He  was  proud  of  the  red  skin,  so  he  tied 

Its  tail  to  the  cart,  and  the  snake's  blood  dyed 

The  bush  on  the  path  he  followed  that  night. 

He  was  early  home,  and  the  dead  Dukite 
Was  flung  at  the  door  to  be  skinned  next  day. 
At  sunrise  next  morning  he  started  away 
To  hunt  up  his  cattle.     A  three  hours'  ride 
Brought  him  back :  he  gazed  on  his  home  with  pride 
And  joy  in  his  heart ;  he  jumped  from  his  horse 
And  entered  —  to  look  on  his  young  wife's  corse, 
And  his  dead  child  clutching  its  mother's  clothes 
As  in  fright ;  and  there,  as  he  gazed,  arose 
From  her  breast,  where  'twas  resting,  the  gleaming 

head 

Of  the  terrible  Dukite,  as  if  it  said, 
*'•  I've  had  vengeance,  my  foe :  you  took  all  I  had." 

And  so  had  the  snake  —  David  Sloane  was  mad  I 


226      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

I  rode  to  his  hut  just  by  chance  that  night, 
And  there  on  the  threshold  the  clear  moonlight 
Showed  the  two  snakes  dead.     I  pushed  in  the 

door 

With  an  awful  feeling  of  coming  woe  : 
The  dead  were  stretched  on  the  moonlit  floor, 
The  man  held  the  hand  of  his  wife,  —  his  pride, 
His  poor  life's  treasure,  —  and  crouched   by  her 

side. 

0  God !  I  sank  with  the  weight  of  the  blow. 

1  touched  and  called  him :  he  heeded  me  not, 
So  I  dug  her  grave  in  a  quiet  spot, 

And  lifted  them  both,  —  her  boy  on  her  breast,  — 
And  laid  them  down  in  the  shade  to  rest. 
Then  I  tried  to  take  my  poor  friend  away, 
But  he  cried  so  wofully,  "  Let  me  stay 
Till  she  comes  again !  "  that  I  had  no  heart 
To  try  to  persuade  him  then  to  part 
From  all  that  was  left  to  him  here,  —  her  grave ; 
So  I  stayed  by  his  side  that  night,  and,  save 
One  heart-cutting  cry,  he  uttered  no  sound,  — 
O  God !  that  wail  —  like  the  wail  of  a  hound ! 


THE    DUK1TE    SNAKE.  22/ 

'Tis  six  long  years  since  I  heard  that  cry, 

But  'twill  ring  in  my  ears  till  the  day  I  die. 

Since  that  fearful  night  no  one  has  heard 

Poor  David  Sloane  utter  sound  or  word. 

You  have  seen  to-day  how  he  always  goes : 

He 's  been  given  that  suit  of  convict's  clothes 

By  some  prison  officer.     On  his  back 

You  noticed  a  load  like  a  pedler's  pack  ? 

Well,  that 's  what  he  lives  for  :  when  reason  went, 

Still  memory  lived,  for  his  days  are  spent 

In  searching  for  Dukites  ;  and  year  by  year 

That  bundle  of  skins  is  growing.     ?Tis  clear 

That  the  Lord  out  of  evil  some  good  still  takes ; 

For  he 's  clearing  this  bush  of  the  Dukite  snakes. 


228      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 


THE  MONSTER  DIAMOND: 

A   TALK   OF   THE   PENAL   COLONY   OF  WEST  AUSTRALIA. 

15  T  'LL  have  it,  I  tell  you !    Curse  you  ! — there !  " 
The  long  knife  glittered,  was  sheathed,  and 
was  bare. 

The  sawyer  staggered  and  tripped  and  fell, 
And  falling  he  uttered  a  frightened  yell : 
His  face  to  the  sky,  he  shuddered  and  gasped, 
And  tried  to  put  from  him  the  man  he  had  grasped 
A  moment  before  in  the  terrible  strife. 
"  I  '11  have  it,  I  tell  you,  or  have  your  life ! 
Where  is  it  ?  "     The  sawyer  grew  weak,  but  still 
His  brown  face  gleamed  with  a  desperate  will. 
"  "Where  is  it  ?  "  he  heard,  and  the  red  knife's  drip 
In  his  slayer's  hand  fell  down  on  his  lip. 
"  Will  you  give  it  ?  "  "  Never '  "  A  curse,  the  knife 
Was  raised  and  buried. 


THE    MONSTER   DIAMOND.  2  29 

Thus  closed  the  life 

Of  Samuel  Jones,  known  as  "  Number  Ten  " 
On  his  Ticket-of-Leave ;  and  of  all  the  men 
In  the  Western  Colony,  bond  or  free, 
None  had  manlier  heart  or  hand  than  he. 

In  digging  a  sawpit,  while  all  alone,  — 

For  his  mate  was  sleeping,  —  Sam  struck  a  stone 

With  the  edge  of  the  spade,  and  it  gleamed  like 

fire, 

And  looked  at  Sam  from  its  bed  in  the  mire, 
Till  he  dropped  the  spade  and  stooped  and  raised 
The  wonderful  stone  that  glittered  and  blazed 
As  if  it  were  mad  at  the  spade's  rude  blow ; 
But  its  blaze  set  the  sawyer's  heart  aglow 
As  he  looked  and  trembled,  then  turned  him  round, 
And  crept  from  the  pit,  and  lay  on  the  ground, 
Looking  over  the  mould-heap  at  the  camp 
Where  his  mate   still  slept.     Then  down  to  the 

swamp 

He  ran  with  the  stone,  and  washed  it  bright, 
And  felt  like  a  drunken  man  at  the  sight 


230      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Of  a  diamond  pure  as  spring- water  and  sun, 
And  larger  than  ever  man's  eyes  looked  on  ! 

Then  down  sat  Sam  with  the  stone  on  his  ki.ees, 

And  fancies  came  to  him,  like  swarms  of  bees 

To  a  sugar-creamed  hive ;  and  he  dreamed  a  \vake 

Of  the  carriage  and  four  in  which  he  'd  take 

His  pals  from  the  Dials  to  Drury  Lane, 

The  silks  and  the  satins  for  Susan  Jane, 

The  countless  bottles  of  brandy  and  beer 

He  'd  call  for  and  pay  for,  and  every  year 

The  dinner  he  'd  give  to  the  Brummagem  lads,  — 

He  'd  be  king  among  cracksmen  and  chief  among 

pads, 
And  he  'd  sport  a  — 

Over  him  stooped  his  mate, 
A  pick  in  his  hand,  and  his  face  all  hate. 
Sam  saw  the  shadow,  and  guessed  the  pick, 
And  closed  his  dream  with  a  spring  so  quick 
The  purpose  was  baffled  of  Aaron  Mace, 
And  the  sawyer  mates  stood  face  to  face. 


THE    MONSTER   DIAMOND.  23! 

Sam  folded  his  arms  across  his  chest, 

Having  thrust  the  stone  in  his  loose  shirt-breast, 

While  he  tried  to  think  where  he  dropped  the  spade. 

But  Aai#n  Mace  wore  a  long,  keen  blade 

In  his  belt,  —  he  drew  it,  —  sprang  on  his  man : 

What  happened,  you  read  when  the  tale  began. 

Then  he  looked  —  the  murderer,  Aaron  Mace  — 
At  the  gray-Blue  lines  in  the  dead  man's  face; 
And  he  turned  away,  for  he  feared  its  frown 
More  in  death  than  life.   Then  he  knelt  him  down,  — 
Not  td  pray, — but  he  shrank  from  the  staring  eyes, 
And  felt  in  the  breast  for  the  fatal  prize. 
And  this  was  the  man,  and  this  was  the  way 
That  he  took  the  stone  on  its  natal  day ; 
And  for  this  he  was  cursed  for  evermore 
By  the  West  Australian  Koh-i-nor. 

In  the  half-dug  pit  the  corpse  was  thrown, 
And  the  murderer  stood  in  the  camp  alone. 
Alone  ?     No,  no !  never  more  was  he 
To  part  from  the  terrible  company 


232      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Of  that  gray-blue  face  and  the  bleeding  breast 
And  the  staring  eyes  in  their  awful  rest. 
The  evening  closed  on  the  homicide, 
And  the  blood  of  the  buried  sawyer  cried 
Through  the  night  to  God,  and  the  shadows  dark 
That  crossed  the  camp  had  the  stiff  and  stark 
And  horrible  look  of  a  murdered  man ! 
Then  he  piled  the  fire,  and  crept  within 
The  ling  of  its  light,  that  closed  him  fh 
Like  tender  mercy,  and  drove  away 
For  a  time  the  spectres  that  stood  at  bay, 
And  waited  to  clutch  him  as  demons  wait, 
Shut  out  from  the  sinner  by  Faith's  bright  gate. 
But  the  fire  burnt  low,  and  the  slayer  slept, 
And  the  key  of  his  sleep  was  always  kept 
By  the  leaden  hand  of  him  he  had  slain, 
That  oped  the  door  but  to  drench  the  brain 
With  agony  cruel.     The  night  wind  crept 
Like  a  snake  on  the  shuddering  form  that  slept 
And  dreamt,  and  woke  and  shrieked ;  for  there, 
With  its  gray-blue  lines  and  its  ghastly  stare, 


THE    MONSTER   DIAMOND.  233 

Cutting  into  the  vitals  of  Aaron  Mace, 

In  the  flickering  light  was  the  sawyer's  face  I 

Evermore  'twas  with  him,  that  dismal  sight,  — 
The  white  face  set  in  the  frame  of  night. 
He  wandered  away  from  the  spot,  but  found 
No  inch  of  the  West  Australian  ground 
Where  he  could  hide  from  the  bleeding  breast, 
Or  sink  his  head  in  a  dreamless  rest. 

And  always  with  him  he  bore  the  prize 
In  a  pouch  of  leather :  the  staring  eyes 
Might  burn  his  soul,  but  the  diamond's  gleam 
Was  solace  and  joy  for  the  haunted  dream. 

So  the  years  rolled  on,  while  the  murderer's  mind 
Was  bent  on  a  futile  quest,  —  to  find 
A  way  of  escape  from  the  blood-stained  soil 
And  the  terrible  wear  of  the  penal  toil. 

But  this  was  a  part  of  the  diamond's  curse,  — 
The  toil  that  was  heavy  before  grew  worse, 


234      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Till  the  panting  wretch  in  his  fierce  unrest 

Would  clutch  the  pouch  as  it  lay  on  his  breast, 

And  waking  cower,  with  sob  and  moan, 

Or  shriek  wild  curses  against  the  stone 

That  was  only  a  stone  ;  for  he  could  not  sell, 

And  he  dare  not  break,  and  he  feared  to  tell 

Of  his  wealth:   so  he  bore  it  through  hopes  and 

fears  — 
His  God  and  his  devil — for  years  and  years. 

And  thus  did  he  draw  near  the  end  of  his  race, 
With  a  form  bent  double  and  horror-lined  face, 
And  a  piteous  look,  as  if  asking  for  grace 
Or  for  kindness  from  some  one  ;  but  no  kind  word 
Was  flung  to  his  misery :  shunned,  abhorred, 
E'en  by  wretches  themselves,  till  his  life  was  a 

curse, 
And  he  thought  that  e'en  death  could  bring  nothing 

worse 
Than  the  phantoms  that  stirred  at  the  diamond's 

weight,  — 
His  own  life's  ghost  and  the  ghost  of  his  mate. 


THE    MONSTER    DIAMOND.  235 

So  he  turned  one  day  from  the  haunts  of  men, 

And  their  friendless  faces :  an  old  man  then, 

In  a  convict's  garb,  with  white  flowing  hair, 

And  a  brow  deep  seared  with  the  word,  "  Despair." 

He  gazed  not  back  as  his  way  he  took 

To  the  untrod  forest ;  and  oh !  the  look, 

The  piteous  look  in  his  sunken  eyes, 

Told  that  life  was  the  bitterest  sacrifice. 

i 

But  little  was  heard  of  his  later  days : 
'Twas  deemed  in  the  West  that  in  change  of  ways 
He  tried  with  his  tears  to  wash  out  the  sin. 
'Twas  told  by  some  natives  who  once  came  in 
From  the  Kojunup  Hills,  that  lonely  there 
They  had  seen  a  figure  with  long  white  hair ; 
They  encamped  close  by  where  his  hut  was  made, 
And  were  scared  at  night  when  they  saw  he  prayed 
To  the  white  man's  God ;  and  on  one  wild  night 
They  had  heard  his  voice  till  the  morning  light. 

Years  passed,  and  a  sandalwood-cutter  stood 
At  a  ruined  hut  in  a  Kojunup  wood  : 


236      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

The  rank  weeds  covered  the  desolate  floor, 
a 

And  an  ant-hill  stood  on  the  fallen  door ; 
The  cupboard  within  to  the  snakes  was  loot, 
And  the  hearth  was  the  home  of  the  bandicoot. 
But  neither  at  hut  nor  snake  nor  rat 
"Was  the  woodcutter  staring  intent,  but  at 
A  human  skeleton  clad  in  gray, 
The  hands  clasped  over  the  breast,  as  they 
Had  fallen  in  peace  when  he  ceased  to  pray, 

As  the  bushman  looked  on  the  form,  he  saw 
In  the  breast  a  paper :  he  stooped  to  draw 
What  might  tell  him  the  story,  but  at  his  touch 
From  under  the  hands  rolled  a  leathern  pouch, 
And  he  raised  it  too,  —  on  the  paper's  face 
He  read  "  Ticket-of-Leave  of  Aaron  Mace." 
Then  he  opened  the  pouch,  and  in  dazed  surprise 
At  its  contents  strange  he  unblessed  his  eyes : 
'  Twas  a  lump  of  quartz,  —  a  pound  weight  in  full, 
And  it  fell  from  his  hand  on  the  skeleton's  skull ! 


THE    DOG    GUARD.  237 


THE  DOG  GUARD:  AN  AUSTRALIAN 
STORY. 

r  I  "'HERE  are  lonesome  places  upon  the  earth 

That  have  never  re-echoed  a  sound  of  mirth, 
Where  the  spirits  abide  that  feast  and  quaff 
On  the  shuddering  soul  of  a  murdered  laugh, 
And  take  grim  delight  in  the  fearful  start, 
As  their  unseen  fingers  clutch  the  heart, 
And  the  blood  flies  out  from  the  griping  pain, 
To  carry  the  chill  through  every  vein ; 
And  the  staring  eyes  and  the  whitened  faces 
Are  a  joy  to  these  ghosts  of  the  lonesome  places. 

But  of  all  the  spots  on  this  earthly  sphere 
Where  these  dismal  spirits  are  strong  and  near, 
There  is  one  more  dreary  than  all  the  rest,  — 
'Tis  the  barren  island  of  Rottenest. 
On  Australia's  western  coast,  you  may  — 
On  a  seaman's  chart  of  Fremantle  Bay  — 


238      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Find  a  tiny  speck,  some  ten  miles  from  shore : 
If  the  chart  be  good,  there  is  something  more,  — 
For  a  shoal  runs  in  on  the  landward  side, 
With  five  fathoms  marked  for  the  highest  tide. 
You  have  nought  but  my  word  for  all  the  rest, 
But  that  speck  is  the  island  of  Rottenest. 

'Tis  a  white  sand-heap,  about  two  miles  long, 
And  say  half  as  wide  ;  but  the  deeds  of  wrong 
Between  man  and  his  brother  that  there  took  plnoe 
Are  sufficient  to  sully  a  continent's  face. 
Ah,  cruel  tales  I  were  they  told  as  a  whole, 
They  would  scare  your  polished  humanity's  soul ; 
They  would  blanch  the  cheeks  in  your  carpeted 

room, 

With  a  terrible  thought  of  the  merited  doom 
For  the  crimes  committed,  still  unredrest, 

On  that  white  sand-heap  called  Rottenest. 

I 

Of  late  years  the  island  is  not  so  bare 

As  it  was  when  I  saw  it  first ;  for  there 

On  the  outer  headland  some  buildings  stand, 


THE    DOG    GUARD.  2 3Q 

And  a  flag,  red-crossed,  says  the  patch  of  sand 
Is  a  recognized  part  of  the  wide  domain 
That  is  blessed  with  the  peace  of  Victoria's  reign. 
But  behind  the  lighthouse  the  land  's  the  same, 
And  it  bears  grim  proof  of  the  white  man's  shame  ; 
For  the  miniature  vales  that  the  island  owns 
Have  a  horrible  harvest  of  human  bones ! 

And  how  did  they  come  there  ?  that 's  the  word ; 
And  I  '11  answer  it  now  with  the  tale  I  heard 
From  the  lips  of  a  man  who  was  there,  and  saw 
The  bad  end  of  man's  greed  and  of  colony  law. 

Many  years  ago,  when  the  white  man  first 
Set  his  foot  on  the  coast,  and  was  hated  and  cursed 
B}r  the  native,  who  had  not  yet  learned  to  fear 
The  dark  wrath  of  the  stranger,  but  drove  his  spear 
With  a  freeman's  force  and  a  bushman's  yell 
At  the  white  invader,  it  then  befell 
That  so  many  were  killed  and  cooked  and  eaten, 
There  was  risk  of  the  whites  in  the  end  being 
beaten ; 


240      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

So  a  plan  was  proposed,  —  'twas  deemed  safest  and 

best 
To  imprison  the  natives  in  Rottenest. 

And  so  every  time  there  was  white  blood  spilled, 
There  were  black  men  captured;   and  those  not 

killed 

In  the  rage  of  vengeance  were  sent  away 
To  this  bleak  sand  isle  in  Fremantle  Bay; 
And  it  soon  came  round  that  a  thousand  men 
Were  together  there,  like  wild  beasts  in  a  pen. 
There  was  not  a  shrub  or  grass-blade  in  the  sand, 
Nor  a  piece  of  timber  as  large  as  your  hand  ; 
But  a  government  boat  went  out  each  day 
To  fling  meat  ashore  —  and  then  sailed  away. 

For  a  year  or  so  was  this  course  pursued, 

Till  'twas  noticed  that  fewer  came  down  for  food 

When  the  boat  appeared ;  then  a  guard  lay  round 

The  island  one  night,  and  the  white  men  found 

That  the  savages  swam  at  the  lowest  tide 

To  the  shoal  that  lay  on  the  landward  side,  — 


THE    DOG    GUARD.  24! 

'Twas  a  mile  from  the  beach,  —  and  then  waded 

ashore ; 
So  the  settlers  met  in  grave  council  once  more. 

That  a  guard  was  needed  was  plain  to  all ; 
But  nobody  answered  the  Governor's  call 
For  a  volunteer  watch.     They  were  only  a  few, 
And  their  wild  young  farms  gave  plenty  to  do ; 
And  the  council  of  settlers  was  breaking  up, 
With  a  dread  of  the  sorrow  they  'd  have  to  sup 
When  the  savage,  unawed,  and  for  vengeance  wild, 
Lay  await  in  the  wood  for  the  mother  and  child. 
And  with  doleful  countenance  each  to  his  neighbor 
Told  a  dreary  tale  of  the  world  of  labor 
He  had,  and  said,  "  Let  him  watch  who  can, 
I    can't ; "   when   there    stepped    to    the    front  a 

man 

With  a  hard  brown  face  and  a  burglar's  brow, 
Who  had  learned  the  secret  he  uttered  now 
When  he  served  in  the  chain-gang  in  New  South 

Wales. 
And  he  said  to  them :  "  Friends,  as  all  else  fails, 


242      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

These  'ere  natives  are  safe  as  if  locked  and  barred, 
If  you  '11  line  that  shoal  with  a  mastiff  guard !  " 

And  the  settlers  looked  at  each  other  awhile, 
Till  the  wonder  toned  to  a  well-pleased  smile 
When  the  brown  ex-burglar  said  he  knew, 
And  would  show  the  whole  of  'em  what  to  do. 

Some  three  weeks  after,  the  guard  was  set ; 
And  a  native  who  swam  to  the  shoal  was  met 
By   two    half-starved    dogs,    when    a   mile    from 

shore,  — 

And,  somehow,  that  native  was  never  seen  more. 
All  the  settlers  were  pleased  with  the  capital  plan, 
And  they  voted  their  thanks  to  the   hard-faced 

man. 

For  a  year,  each  day  did  the  government  boat 
Take  the  meat  to  the  isle  and  its  guard  afloat. 
In  a  line,  on  the  face  of  the  shoal,  the  dogs 
Had  a  dry  house  each,  on  some  anchored  logs ; 
And  the  neck-chain  from  each  stretched  just  half 

way 


THE   DOG   GUARD.  243 

To  the  next  dog's  house ;  right  across  the  Bay 
Ran  a  line  that  was  hideous  with  horrid  sounds 
From  the  hungry  throats  of  two  hundred  hounds. 

So  one  more  year  passed,  and  the  brutes  on  the  logs 
Had  grown  more  like  devils  than  common  dogs. 
There  was  such  a  hell-chorus  by  day  and  night 
That  the  settlers  ashore  were  chilled  with  fright 
When  they  thought  —  if  that  legion  should  break 

away, 
And  come  in  with  the  tide  some  fatal  day ! 

But  they  'scaped  that  chance ;  for  a  man  came  in 
From  the  Bush,  one  day,  with  a  'possum's  skin 
To  the  throat  filled  up  with  large  pearls  he  'd  found 
To  the  north,  on  the  shore  of  the  Shark's  Bay 

Sound. 

And  the  settlement  blazed  with  a  wild  commotion 
At  sight  of  the  gems  from  the  wealthy  ocean. 

Then  the  settlers  all  began  to  pack 

Their  tools  and  tents;  and  to  ask  the  track 


244      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

That  the  bushman  followed  to  strike  the  spot,  — 

While  the  dogs  and  natives  were  all  forgot. 

In  two  days,  from  that  camp  on  the  River  Swan, 

To  the  Shark's  Bay  Sound  had  the  settlers  gone  ; 

And  no  merciful  feeling  did  one  retard 

For  the  helpless  men  and  their  terrible  guard. 

It  were  vain  to  try,  in  my  quiet  room, 
To  write  down  the  truth  of  the  awful  doom 
That  befell  those  savages  prisoned  there, 
When  the  pangs  of  hunger  and  wild  despair 
Had  nigh  made  them  mad  as  the  fiends  outside  : 
'Tis  enough  that  one  night,  through  the  low  ebb 

tide, 

Swam  nine  hundred  savages,  armed  with  stones 
And  with  weapons  made  from  their  dead  friends' 

bones. 

Without  ripple  or  sound,  when  the  moon  was  gone, 
Through  the  inky  water  they  glided  on  ; 
Swimming  deep,  and  scarce  daring  to  draw  a  breath, 
While  the  guards,  if  they  saw,  were  as  dumb  as 

death.  • 


THE    DOG    GUARD.  245 

'Twas  a  terrible  picture !    O  God !  that  the  night 
Were  so  black  as  to  cover  the  horrid  sight 
From  the  eyes  of  the  Angel  that  notes  man's  ways 
In  the  book  that  will  ope  on  the  Day  of  Days ! 

There  were  screams  when  they  met,  —  shrill  screams 

of  pain! 

For  each  animal  swam  at  the  length  of  his  chain, 
And  with  parching  throat  and  in  furious  mood 
Lay  awaiting,  not  men,  but  his  coming  food. 
There  were  short,  sharp  cries,  and  a  line  of  fleck 
As  the  long  fangs  sank  in  the  swimmer's  neck ; 
There  were  gurgling  growls  mixed  with  human 

groans, 

For  the  savages  drave  the  sharpened  bones 
Through  their  enemies'  ribs,  and  the  bodies  sank, 
Each  dog  holding  fast  with  a  bone  through  his  flank. 

Then  those  of  the  natives  who  'scaped  swam  back ; 
But  too  late  !  for  scores  of  the  savage  pack, 
Driven  mad  by  the  yells  and  the  sounds  of  fight, 
Had  broke  loose  and  followed.    On  that  dread  night 


246      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Let  the  curtain  fall :  when  the  red  sun  rose 
From  the  placid  ocean,  the  joys  and  woes 
Of  a  thousand  men  he  had  last  eve  seen 
Were  as  things  or  thoughts  that  had  never  been. 

When  the  settlers  returned,  —  in  a  month  or  two,  — 

They  bethought  of  the  dogs  and  the  prisoned  crew. 

And  a  boat  went  out  on  a  tardy  quest 

Of  whatever  was  living  on  Rottenest. 

They  searched  all  the  isle,  and  sailed  back  agen 

With  some  specimen  bones  of  the  dogs  and  men. 


THE  AMBER  WHALE.  247 


THE  AMBER   WHALE:    A  HARPOONEER'S 
STORY. 


[Whalemen  have  a  strange  belief  as  to  the  formation  of  amber.  They 
pay  that  it  is  a  petrifaction  of  some  internal  part  of  a  whale ;  and  they  tell 
weird  stories  of  enormous  whales  seen  in  the  warm  latitudes,  that  were 
almost  entirely  transformed  into  the  precious  substance.] 


"\T  7E  were  down  in  the  Indian  Ocean,  after 
sperm,  and  three  years  out; 

The  last  six  months  in  the  tropics,  and  looking 
in  vain  for  a  spout,  — 

Five  men  up  on  the  royal  yards,  weary  of  strain 
ing  their  sight ; 

And  every  day  like  its  brother,  — just  morning  and 
noon  and  night  — 

Nothing  to  break  the  sameness:  water  and  wind 
and  sun 

Motionless,  gentle,  and  blazing,  —  never  a  change 
in  one. 


248      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Every  day  like  its  brother :    when  the  noonday 

eight-bells  came, 
'Twas  like  yesterday;   and  we  seemed   to  know 

that  to-morrow  would  be  the  same. 
The  foremast  hands  had  a  lazy  time :  there  was 

never  a  thing  to  do ; 
The  ship  was  painted,  tarred  down,  and  scraped  ; 

and  the  mates  had  nothing  new. 
We  'd  worked  at  sinnet  and  ratline  till  there  wasn't 

a  yarn  to  use, 
And  all  we  could  do  was  watch  and  pray  for  a 

sperm  whale's  spout  —  or  news. 
It  was  whaler's  luck  of  the  vilest  sort ;  and,  though 

many  a  volunteer 
Spent  his  watch  below  on  the  look-out,  never  a 

whale  came  near, — 
At  least  of  the  kind  we  wanted :  there  were  lots 

of  whales  of  a  sort,  — 
Killers  and  finbacks,  and  such  like,  as  if  they 

enjoyed  the  sport 
Of  seeing  a  whale-ship  idle ;  but  we  never  lowered 

a  boat 


THE    AMBER    WHALE.  249 

For  less  than  a  blackfish,  —  there's  no  oil  in  a 

killer's  or  finback's  coat. 
There  was  rich  reward  for  the  look-out  men, — 

tobacco  for  even  a  sail, 
And  a  barrel  of  oil  for  the  lucky  dog  who  'd  be 

first  to  "  raise  "  a  whale. 
The  crew  was  a  mixture  from  every  land,  and  many 

a  tongue  they  spoke ; 
And  when  they  sat  in  the  fo'castle,  enjoying  an 

evening  smoke, 
There  were  tales  told,  youngster,  would  make  you 

stare,  —  stories  of  countless  shoals 
Of  devil-fish  in  the  Pacific  and  right-whales  away 

at  the  Poles. 
There  was  one  of  these  fo'castle  yarns  that  we 

always  loved  to  hear, — 
Kanaka  and  Maori  and  Yankee ;  all  lent  an  eager 

ear 
To  that  strange  old  tale  that  was  always  new, — 

the  wonderful  treasure-tale 
Of  an  old  Down -Eastern  harpooneer  who  had 

struck  an  Amber  Whale! 


25O      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Ay,  that  was  a  tale  worth  hearing,  lad :  if  'twas 

true  we  couldn't  say, 
Or  if  'twas  a  yarn  old  Mat  had  spun  to  while  the 

time  away. 

"  It 's  just  fifteen  years  ago,"  said  Mat,  "  since  I 

shipped  as  harpooneer 

On  board  a  bark  in  New  Bedford,  and  came  cruis 
ing  somewhere  near 
To  this  whaling-ground  we  're  cruising  now ;  but 

whales  were  plenty  then, 
And  not  like  now,  when  we  scarce  get  oil  to  pay 

for  the  ship  and  men. 
There  were  none  of  these  oil  wells  running  then,  — 

at  least,  what  shore  folk  term 
An  oil  well  in  Pennsylvania,  —  but  sulphur-bottom 

and  sperm 
Were  plenty  as  frogs  in  a  mud-hole,  and  all  of  'em 

big  whales,  too ; 
One  hundred  barrels  for  sperm-whales;   and  for 

sulphur-bottom,  two. 
You  couldn't  pick  out  a  small  one:   the  littlest 

calf  or  cow 


THE    AMBER    WHALE.  2$  I 

Had  a  sight  more  oil  than  the  big  bull  whales  we 
think  so  much  of  now. 

We  were  more  to  the  east,  off  Java  Straits,  a  little 
below  the  mouth,  — 

A  hundred  and  five  to  the  east'ard  and  nine  de 
grees  to  the  south ; 

And  that  was  as  good  a  whaling-ground  for  mid 
dling-sized,  handy  whales 

As  any  in  all  the  ocean ;  and  'twas  always  white 
with  sails 

From  Scotland  and  Hull  and  New  England,  —  for 
the  whales  were  thick  as  frogs, 

And  'twas  little  trouble  to  kill  'em  then,  for  they 
lay  as  quiet  as  logs. 

And  every  night  we  'd  go  visiting  the  other  whale- 
ships  'round, 

Or  p'r'aps  we  'd  strike  on  a  Dutchman,  calmed  off 
the  Straits,  and  bound 

To  Singapore  or  Batavia,  with  plenty  of  schnapps 
to  sell 

For  a  few  whale's  teeth  or  a  gallon  of  oil,  and  the 
latest  news  to  tell. 


252      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

And  in  every  ship  of  that  whaling  fleet  was  one 

wonderful  story  told,  — 
How  an  Amber  Whale  had  been  seen  that  year 

that  was  worth  a  mint  of  gold. 
And  one  man  —  mate  of  a  Scotchman  —  said  he  'd 

seen,  away  to  the  west, 
A  big  school  of  sperm,  and  one  whale's  spout  was 

twice  as  high  as  the  rest ; 
And  we  knew  that  that  was  the  Amber  Whale,  for 

we  'd  often  heard  before 
That  his  spout  was  twice  as  thick  as  the  rest,  and 

a  hundred  feet  high  or  more. 
And  often,  when  the  look-out  cried,  '  He  blows ! ' 

the  very  hail 
Thrilled  every  heart  with  the  greed  of  gold,  —  for 

we  thought  of  the  Amber  Whale. 


"  But  never  a  sight  of  his  spout  we  saw  till  the  sea 
son  there  went  round, 

And  the  ships  ran  down  to  the  south'ard  to  an 
other  whaling-ground. 


THE    AMBER    WHALE.  253 

We  stayed  to  the  last  off  Java,  and  then  we  ran 

to  the  west, 
To  get  our  recruits  at  Mauritius,  and  give  the  crew 

a  rest. 
Five  days  we  ran  in  the  trade  winds,  and  the  boys 

were  beginning  to  talk 
Of  their  time  ashore,  and  whether  they  'd  have  a 

donkey-ride  or  a  walk, 
And  whether  they'd  spend  their  money  in  wine, 

bananas,  or  pearls, 
Or  drive  to  the  sugar  plantations  to  dance  with  the 

Creole  girls. 
But  they  soon  got  something  to  talk  about.     Five 

days  we  ran  west-sou'-west, 
But  the  sixth  day's  log-book  entry  was  a  change 

from  all  the  rest ; 
For  that  was  the  day  the  mast-head  men  made 

every  face  turn  pale, 
With  the  cry  that  we  all  had  dreamt  about,  — '  HE 

BLOWS  1  THE  AMBER  WHAIB  1 ' 


254      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

"  And  every  man  was  motionless,  and  every  speak 
er's  lip 

Just  stopped  as  it  was,  with  the  word  half-said : 
there  wasn't  a  sound  in  the  ship 

Till  the  Captain  hailed  the  masthead,  *  Whereaway 
is  the  whale  you  see  ? ' 

And  the  cry  came  down  again,  '  He  blows !  about 
four  points  on  our  lee, 

And  three  miles  off,  sir,  —  there  he  blows  I  he  's 
going  to  leeward  fast ! ' 

And  then  we  sprang  to  the  rigging,  and  saw  the 
great  whale  at  last ! 

"  Ah !  shipmates,  that  was  a  sight  to  see :  the  water 

was  smooth  as  a  lake, 
And  there  was  the  monster  rolling,  with  a  school  of 

whales  in  his  wake. 
They  looked  like  pilot-fish  round  a  shark,  as  if  they 

were  keeping  guard ; 
And,  shipmates,  the  spout  of  that  Amber  Whale 

was  high  as  a  sky-sail  yard. 
There  was  never  a  ship's  crew  worked  so  quick  as 

our  whalemen  worked  that  day,  — 


THE    AMBER   WHALE.  255 

When  the  captain  shouted,  '  Swing  the  boats,  and 

be  ready  to  lower  away ! ' 
Then,  '  A  pull  on  the  weather-braces,  men  I  let  her 

head  fall  off  three  points  I ' 
And  off  she  swung,  with  a  quarter-breeze  straining 

the  old  ship's  joints. 
The  men  came  down  from  the  mastheads ;  and  the 

boats'  crews  stood  on  the  rail, 
Stowing  the  lines  and  irons,  and  fixing  paddles  and 

sail. 
And  when  all  was  ready  we  leant  on  the  boats  and 

looked  at  the  Amber's  spout, 
That  went  up  like  a  monster  fountain,  with  a  sort 

of  a  rumbling  shout, 
I/ike  a  thousand  railroad  engines  puffing  away  their 

smoke. 
He  was  just  like  a  frigate's  hull  capsized,  and  the 

swaying  water  broke 
Against  the  sides  of  the  great  stiff  whale :  he  waa 

steering  south-by-west,  — 
For  the  Cape,  no  doubt,  for  a  whale  can  shape  a 

course  as  well  as  the  best. 


256      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

We  soon  got  close  as  was  right  to  go ;  for  the  school 

might  hear  a  hail, 
Or  see  the  bark,  and  that  was  the  last  of  our  Bank- 

of-England  Whale. 
'  Let  her  luff,'  said  the  Old  Man,  gently.     '  Now, 

lower  away,  my  boys, 
And  pull  for  a  mile,  then  paddle,  —  and  mind  that 

you  make  no  noise.' 

"  A  minute  more,  and  the  boats  were  down ;  and 

out  from  the  hull  of  the  bark 
They  shot  with  a  nervous  sweep  of  the  oars,  like 

dolphins  away  from  a  shark. 
Each  officer  stood  in  the  stern,  and  watched,  as  he 

held  the  steering  oar, 
And  the  crews  bent  down  to  their  pulling  as  they 

never  pulled  before. 

"  Our  Mate  was  as  thorough  a  whaleman  as  I  ever 

met  afloat; 
And  I  was  his  harpooneer  that  day,  and  sat  in  the 

bow  of  the  boat. 


THE    AMBER    WHALE.  25  / 

His  eyes  were  set  on  the  whales  ahead,  and  he  spoke 

in  a  low,  deep  tone, 
And  told  the  men  to  be  steady  and  cool,  and  the 

whale  was  all  our  own. 
And  steady  and  cool  they  proved  to  be :  you  could 

read  it  in  every  face, 
And  in  every  straining  muscle,  that  they  meant  to 

win  that  race. 
'  Bend  to  it,  boys,  for  a  few  strokes  more, — bend  to 

it  steady  and  long ! 
Now,  in  with  your  oars,  and  paddles  out,  —  all 

together,  and  strong  ! ' 
Then  we  turned  and  sat  on  the  gunwale,  with  our 

faces  to  the  bow  ; 
And  the  whales  were  right  ahead,  —  no  more  than 

four  ships'  lengths  off  now. 
There  were  five  of  'em,  hundred-barrellers,  like 

guards  round  the  Amber  Whale. 
And  to  strike  him  we  'd  have  to  risk  being  stove  by 

crossing  a  sweeping  tail ; 
But  the  prize  and  the  risk  were  equal.    *  Mat,'  now 

whispers  the  Mate, 


258      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

*  Are  your  irons  ready  ? '    '  Ay,  ay,  sir.'    4  Stand  up, 

then,  steady,  and  wait 
Till  I  give  the  word,  then  let  'em  fly,  and  hit  him 

below  the  fin 
As  he  rolls  to  wind'ard.     Start  her,  boys !  now  'a 

the  time  to  slide  her  in! 
Hurrah !  that  fluke  just  missed  us.     Mind,  as  soon 

as  the  iron  's  fast, 
Be  ready  to  back  your  paddles,  —  now  in  for  it,  boys, 

at  last. 
Heave !  Again ! ' 

"  And  two  irons  flew :  the  first  one  sank 

in  the  joint, 
'Tween  the  head  and  hump,  —  in  the  muscle ;  but 

the  second  had  its  point 
Turned  off  by  striking  the  amber  case,  coming  out 

again  like  a  bow, 
And  the  monster  carcass  quivered,  and  rolled  with 

pain  from  the  first  deep  blow. 
Then  he  lashed  the  sea  with  his  terrible  flukes,  and 

showed  us  many  a  sign 


THE    AMBER    WHALE.  259 

That  his  rage  was  roused.     'Lay  off,'  roared  the 

Mate,  '  and  all  keep  clear  of  the  line ! ' 
And  that  was  a  timely  warning,  for  the  whale  made 

an  awful  breach 
Right  out  of  the  sea ;  and  'twas  well  for  us  that  the 

boat  was  beyond  the  reach 
Of  his  sweeping  flukes,  as  he  milled  around,  and 

made  for  the  Captain's  boat, 
That  was  right  astern.     And,  shipmates,  then  my 

heart  swelled  up  in  my  throat 
At  the  sight  I  saw :   the  Amber  Whale  was  lash 
ing  the  sea  with  rage, 
And  two  of  his  hundred-barrel  guards  were  ready 

now  to  engage 
In  a  bloody  fight,  and  with  open  jaws  they  came 

to  their  master's  aid. 
Then  we  knew  the  Captain's  boat  was  doomed ;  but 

the  crew  were  no  whit  afraid,  — 
They  were  brave  New  England  whalemen,  —  and 

we  saw  the  harpooneer 
Stand  up  to  send  in  his  irons,  as  soon  as  the  whales 

came  near. 


26O      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Then  we  heard  the  Captain's  order, '  Heave ! '  and 

saw  the  harpoon  fly, 
As  the  whales  closed  in  with  their  open  jaws :   a 

shock,  and  a  stifled  cry- 
Was  all  that  we  heard ;  then  we  looked  to  see  if 

the  crew  were  still  afloat,  — 
But  nothing  was  there  save  a  dull  red  patch,  and 

the  boards  of  the  shattered  boat  I 

"  But  that  was  no  time  for  mourning  words :  the 

other  two  boats  came  in, 
And  one  got  fast  on  the  quarter,  and  one  aft  the 

starboard  fin 
Of  the  Amber  Whale.    For  a  minute  he  paused,  as 

if  he  were  in  doubt 
As  to  whether  'twas  best  to  run  or  fight.     4  Lay 

on ! '  the  Mate  roared  out, 
*  And  I  '11  give  him  a  lance  ! '     The  boat  shot  in ; 

and  the  Mate,  when  he  saw  his  chance 
Of  sending  it  home  to  the  vitals,  four  times  he 

buried  his  lance. 
A  minute  more,  and  a  cheer  went  up,  when  we  saw 

that  his  aim  was  good  ; 


THE    AMBER    WHALE.  26 1 

For  the  lance  had  struck  in  a  life-spot,  and  the  whale 

was  spouting  blood ! 
But  now  came  the  time  of  danger,  for  the  school  of 

whales  around 
Had  aired  their  flukes,  and  the  cry  was  raised, 

*  Look  out !   they  're  going  to  sound  I ' 
And  down  they  went  with  a  sudden  plunge,  the 

Amber  Whale  the  last, 
While  the  lines  ran  smoking  out  of  the  tubs,  he 

went  to  the  deep  so  fast. 
Before  you  could  count  your  fingers,  a  hundred 

fathoms  were  out; 
And  then  he  stopped,  for  a  wounded  whale  must 

come  to  the  top  and  spout. 
We  hauled  slack  line  as  we  felt  him  rise ;   and 

when  he  came  up  alone, 
And  spouted  thick  blood,  we  cheered  again,  for  we 

knew  he  was  all  our  own. 
He  was  frightened  now,  and  his  fight  was  gone,  — 

right  round  and  round  he  spun, 
As  if  he  was  trying  to  sight  the  boats,  or  find  the 

best  side  to  run. 


262      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

But  that  was  the  minute  for  us  to  work :  the  boats 

hauled  in  their  slack, 
And  bent  on  the  drag-tubs  over  the  stern  to  tire 

and  hold  him  back. 
The  bark  was  five  miles  to  wind'ard,  and  the  mate 

gave  a  troubled  glance 
At  the  sinking  sun,  and  muttered,  '  Boys,  we  must 

give  him  another  lance, 
Or  he  '11  run  till  night ;  and,  if  he  should  head  to 

wind'ard  in  the  dark, 
We  '11  be  forced  to  cut  loose  and  leave  him,  or  else 

lose  run  of  the  bark.' 
So  we  hauled  in  close,  two  boats  at  once,  but  only 

frightened  the  whale ; 
And,  like  a  hound  that  was  badly  whipped,  he 

turned  and  showed  his  tail, 
With  his  head  right  dead  to  wind'ard;   then  as 

straight  and  as  swift  he  sped 
As  a  hungry  shark  for  a  swimming  prey;   and, 

bending  over  his  head, 
Like  a  mighty  plume,  went  his  bloody  spout.     Ah ! 

shipmates,  that  was  a  sight 


THE    AMBER   WHALE.  263 

Worth  a  life  at  sea  to  witness.    In  his  wake  the  sea 

was  white 
As  you  've  seen  it  after  a  steamer's  screw,  churning 

up  like  foaming  yeast ; 
And  the  boats  went  hissing  along  "at  the  rate  of 

twenty  knots  at  least, 
With  the  water  flush  with  the  gunwale,  and  the 

oars  were  all  apeak, 
While  the  crews  sat  silent  and  quiet,  watching  the 

long,  white  streak 
That  was  traced  by  the  line  of  our  passage.     We 

hailed  the  bark  as  we  passed, 
And  told  them  to  keep  a  sharp  look-out  from  the 

head  of  every  mast; 
*  And  if  we  're  not  back  by  sundown,'  cried  the 

Mate,  'you  keep  a  light 
At  the  royal  cross-trees.    If  he  dies,  we  may  stick 

to  the  whale  all  night.' 

"And  past  we  swept  with  our  oars  apeak,  and 

waved  our  hands  to  the  hail 
Of  the  wondering  men  on  the  taffrail,  who  were 

watching  our  Amber  Whale 


264      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

As  he  surged  ahead,  just  as  if  he  thought  he  could 

tire  his  enemies  out ; 
I  was  almost  sorrowful,  shipmates,  to  see  after  each 

red  spout 
That  the  great  whale's  strength  was  failing:  the 

sweep  of  his  flukes  grew  slow, 
Till  at  sundown  he  made  about  four  knots,  and  his 

spout  was  weak  and  low. 
Then  said  the  Mate  to  his  hoat's  crew :  '  Boys,  the 

vessel  is  out  of  sight 
To  the  leeward :  now,  shall  we  cut  the  line,  or  stick 

to  the  whale  all  night  ? ' 
*  We  '11  stick  to  the  whale ! '  cried  every  man.   '  Let 

the  other  boats  go  back 
To  the  vessel  and  beat  to  wind'ard,  as  well  as  they 

can,  in  our  track.' 
It  was  done  as  they  said :  the  lines  were  cut,  and 

the  crews  cried  out, '  Good  speed ! ' 
As  we  swept  along  in  the  darkness,  in  the  wake 

of  our  monster  steed, 
That  went  plunging  on,  with  the  dogged  hope  that 

he  'd  tire  his  enemies  still,  — 


THE    AMBER    WHALE.  265 

But  even  the  strength  of  an  Amber  Whale  must 

break  before  human  will. 
By  little  and  little  his  power  had  failed  as  he 

spouted  his  blood  away, 
Till  at  midnight  the  rising  moon  shone  down  on 

the  great  fish  as  he  lay 
Just  moving  his  flukes  ;  but  at  length  he  stopped, 

and  raising  his  square,  black  head 
As  high  as  the  topmast  cross-trees,  swung  round 

and  fell  over  —  dead! 

"  And  then  rose  a  shout  of  triumph,  —  a  shout  that 

was  more  like  a  curse 
Than  an  honest  cheer ;  but,  shipmates,  the  thought 

in  our  hearts  was  worse, 
And  'twas  punished  with  bitter  suffering.     We 

claimed  the  whale  as  our  own, 
And  said  that  the  crew  should  have  no  share  of  the 

wealth  that  was  ours  alone. 
We  said  to  each  other :  We  want  their  help  till  we 

get  the  whale  aboard, 
So  we  '11  let  'em  think  that  they  '11  have  a  share  till 

we  get  the  Amber  stored, 


266      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

And  theii  we  '11  pay  them  their  wages,  and  send 

them  ashore  —  or  afloat, 
If  they  show  their  temper.     Ah !    shipmates,  no 

wonder  'twas  that  boat 
And  its  selfish  crew  were  cursed  that  night.     Next 

day  we  saw  no  sail, 
But  the  wind  and  sea  were  rising.     Still,  we  held 

to  the  drifting  whale, — 
And  a  dead  whale   drifts  to  windward,  —  going 

farther  away  from  the  ship, 
Without  water,  or  bread,  or  courage  to  pray  with 

heart  or  lip 
That  had  planned  and  spoken  the  treachery.     The 

wind  blew  into  a  gale, 
And  it  screamed  like  mocking  laughter  round  our 

boat  and  the  Amber  Whale. 

"  That  night  fell  dark  on  the  starving  crew,  and  a 

hurricane  blew  next  day; 
Then  we  cut  the  line,  and  we  cursed  the  prize  as  it 

drifted  fast  away, 
As  if  some  power  under  the  waves  were  towing  it 

out  of  sight ;. 


THE    AMBER    WHALE.  26/ 

And  there  we  were,  without  help  or  hope,  dreading 

the  coming  night. 
Three  days  that  hurricane  lasted.    When  it  passed, 

two  men  were  dead  ; 
And  the  strongest  one  of  the  living  had  not  strength 

to  raise  his  head, 
When  his  dreaming  swoon  was  broken  by  the  sound 

of  a  cheery  hail, 
And  he  saw  a  shadow  fall  on  the  boat,  —  it  fell 

from  the  old  bark's  sail ! 
And  when  he  heard  then:  kindly  words,  you  'd  think 

*he  should  have  smiled 
With  joy  at  his  deliverance ;  but  he  cried  like  a 

little  child, 
And  hid  his  face  in  his  poor  weak  hands,  —  for  he 

thought  of  the  selfish  plan, — 
And  he  prayed  to  God  to  forgive  them  all.     And, 

shipmates,  I  am  the  man  !  — 
The  only  one  of  the  sinful  crew  that  ever  beheld 

his  home ; 
For  before  the  cruise  was  over,  all  the  rest  were 

under  the  foam. 


268      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

It's  just  fifteen  years  gone,  shipmates,"  said  old 

Mat,  ending  his  tale ; 
"  And  I  often  pray  that  I  '11  never  see  another 

Amber  Whale." 


THE   KING    OF   THE    VASSE. 


A   LEGEND   OF   THE   BUSH. 


From  that  fair  land  and  drear  land  in  the  South, 

Of  wJtich  through  years  I  do  not  cease  to  tkink, 
I  brought  a  tale,  learned  not  by  word  of  mouth, 

But  formed  by  finding  here  one  golden  link 
And  there  another ;  and  with  hands  unskilled 

For  such  fine  work,  but  patient  of  all  pain 
For  love  of  it,  I  sought  therefrom  to  build 

What  might  have  been  at  first  the  goodly  chain. 

It  is  not  golden  now :  my  craft  knows  more 
Of  working  baser  metal  than  of  fine; 

But  to  those  fate-wrought  rings  of  precious  ore 
I  add  these  rugged  iron  links  of  mine. 


M 


THE  KING  OF  THE  VASSE. 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  BUSH. 


Y  tale  which  I  have  brought  is  of  a  time 


Ere  that  fair  Southern  laud  was  stained  with 

crime, 

Brought  thitherward  in  reeking  ships  and  cast 
Like  blight  upon  the  coast,  or  like  a  blast 
From  angry  levin  on  a  fair  young  tree, 
That  stands  thenceforth  a  piteous  sight  to  see. 
So  lives  this  land  to-day  beneath  the  sun, — 
A  weltering  plague-spot,  where  the  hot  tears  run, 
And  hearts  to  ashes  turn,  and  souls  are  dried 
Like  empty  kilns  where  hopes  have  parched  and 

died. 

"Woe's  cloak  is  round  her, —  she  the  fairest  shore 
In  all  the  Southern  Ocean  o'er  and  o'er. 
Poor  Cinderella  !  she  must  bide  her  woe, 
Because  an  elder  sister  wills  it  so. 

271 


2/2      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Ah  I  could  that  sister  see  the  future  day 

When  her  own  wealth   and  strength  are   shorn 

away, 

And  she,  lone  mother  then,  puts  forth  her  hand 
To  rest  on  kindred  blood  in  that  far  land ; 
Could  she  but  see  that  kin  deny  her  claim 
Because  of  nothing  owing  her  but  shame,  — 
Then  might  she  learn,  'tis  building  but  to  fall, 
If  carted  rubble  be  the  basement-wall. 

But  this  my  tale,  if  tale  it  be,  begins 
Before  the  young  land  saw  the  old  land's  sins 
Sail  up  the  orient  ocean,  like  a  cloud 
Far-blown,  and  widening  as  it  neared,  —  a  shroud 
Fate-sent  to  wrap  the  bier  of  all  things  pure, 
And  mark  the  leper-land  while  stains  endure. 

In  the  far  days,  the  few  who  sought  the  West 
Were  men  all  guileless,  in  adventurous  quest 
Of  lands  to  feed  their  flocks  and  raise  their  grain, 
And  help  them  live  their  lives  with  less  of  pain 
Than  crowded  Europe  lets  her  children  know. 


TFE    KING    OF    THE    VASSE.  2/3 

From  their  old  homesteads  did  they  seaward  go, 

As  if  in  Nature's  order  men  must  flee 

As  flow  the  streams,  —  from  inlands  to  the  sea. 

In  that  far  time,  from  out  a  Northern  land, 
With  home-ties  severed,  went  a  numerous  band 
Of   men  and   wives    and    children,   white-haired 

folk: 

Whose  humble  hope  of  rest  at  home  had  broke, 
As  year  was  piled  on  year,  and  still  their  toil 
Had  wrung  poor  fee  from  Sweden's  rugged  soil. 
One  day  there  gathered  from  the  neighboring  steads, 
In  Jacob  Eibsen's,  five  strong  household  heads,  — 
Five  men  large-limbed  and  sinewed,  Jacob's  sons, 
Though  he  was  hale,  as  one  whose  current  runs 
In  stony  channels,  that  the  streamlet  rend, 
But  keep  it  clear  and  full  unto  the  end. 
Eight  sons  had  Jacob  Eibsen,  —  three  still  boys, 
And  these   five   men,  who  owned  of  griefs  and 

joys 

The  common  lot ;  and  three  tall  girls  beside, 
Of  whom  the  eldest  was  a  blushing  bride 


2/4      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

One  year  before.      Old-fashioned  times  and  men, 
And  wives  and  maidens,  were  in  Sweden  then. 
These   five   came  there  for  counsel :   they  were 

tired 

Of  hoping  on  for  all  the  heart  desired ; 
And  Jacob,  old  but  mighty-thewed  as  youth, 
In  all  their  words  did  sadly  own  the  truth, 
And  said  unto  them,  "  Wealth  cannot  be  found 
In  Sweden  now  by  men  who  till  the  grou  n<h 
I  've  thought  at  times  of  leaving  this  bat»?  jyxce, 
And  holding  seaward  with  a  seeking  face 
For  those  new  lands  they  speak  of,  whet*1   men 

thrive. 

Alone  I  've  thought  of  this ;  but  now  you  five  — 
Five  brother  men  of  Eibsen  blood  —  shall  say 
If  our    old    stock   from    here    must   wend    th  ir 

way, 

And  seek  a  home  where  anxious  sires  can  give 
To  every  child  enough  whereon  to  live." 

Then  each  took  thought  in  silence.     Jacob  gazed 
Across  them  at  the  pastures  worn  and  grazed 


THE    KING    OF    THE    VASSE.  2/5 

By  ill -fed  herds ;  his  glance  to  corn-fields  passed, 
"Where  stunted  oats,  worse  each  year  than  the  last, 
And  blighted  barley,  grew  amongst  the  stones, 
That  showed  ungainly,  like  earth's  fleshless  bones. 
He  sighed,  and  turned  away.     "  Sons,  let  me  know 
What  think  you." 

Each  one  answered  firm,  "  We  go." 
And  then  they  said,  "  We  want  no  northern  wind 
To  chill  us  more,  or  driving  hail  to  blind. 
But  let  us  sail  where  south  winds  fan  the  sea, 
And  happier  we  and  all  our  race  shall  be." 
And  so  in  time  there  started  for  the  coast, 
With  farm  and  household  gear,  this  Eibsen  host ; 
And  there,  with  others,  to  a  good  ship  passed, 
Which  soon  of  Sweden's  hills  beheld  the  last. 

I  know  not  of  their  voyage,  nor  how  they 
Did  wonder-stricken  sit,  as  day  by  day, 
'Neath  tropic  rays,  they  saw  the  smooth  sea  swell 
And  heave ;   while  night  by  night  the  north-star 
fell, 


2/6      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Till  last  they  watched  him  burning  on  the  sea ; 
Nor  how  they  saw,  and  wondered  it  could  be, 
Strange  beacons  rise  before  them  as  they  gazed  ; 
Nor  how  their  hearts  grew  light  when  southward 

blazed 
Five  stars  in  blessed  shape,  —  the  Cross !  whose 

flame 
Seemed  shining  welcome  as  the  wanderers  came. 

My  story  presses  from  this  star-born  hope 

To  where  on  young  New  Holland's  western  slope 

These    Northern   farming    folk    found    homes    at 

last, 
And   all   their   thankless   toil    seemed    now  long 

past. 

Nine  fruitful  years  chased  over,  and  nigh  all 
Of  life  was  sweet.     But  one  dark  drop  of  gall 
Had  come  when  first  they  landed,  like  a  sign 
Of  some  black  woe ;  and  deep  in  Eibsen's  wine 
Of  life  it  hid,  till  in  the  sweetest  cup 
The  old  man  saw  its  shape  come  shuddering  up. 


THE    KING    OF    THE    VASSE.  2/7 

And  first  it  came  in  this  wise :  when  their  ship 

Had  made  the  promised  land,  and  every  lip 

Was  pouring  praise  for  what  the  eye  did  meet,  — 

For  all  the  air  was  yellow  as  with  heat 

Above  the  peaceful  sea  and  dazzling  sand 

That  wooed  each  other  round  the  beauteous  land, 

Where  inward  stretched   the  slumbering  forest's 

green,  — 
When  first  these  sights  from  off  the  deck  were 

seen, 

There  rose  a  wailing  sternwards,  and  the  men 
Who  dreamt  of  heaven  turned  to  earth  agen, 
And  heard  the  direful  cause  with  bated  breath,  — 
The  land's  first  gleam  had  brought  the  blight  of 

death ! 

The  wife  of  Eibsen  held  her  six-years  son, 
Her  youngest,  and  in  secret  best-loved  one, 
Close  to  her  lifeless :  his  had  been  the  cry 
That  first  horizonwards  bent  every  eye ; 
And  from  that  opening  sight  of  sand  and  tree 
Like  one  deep  spell-bound  did  he  seem  to  be, 


2/8      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

And  moved  by  some  strange  phantasy ;  his  eyes 

Were  wide  distended  as  in  glad  surprise 

At  something   there   he   saw ;   his  arms  reached 

o'er 

The  vessel's  side  as  if  to  greet  the  shore, 
And  sounds  came  from  his  lips  like  sobs  of  joy. 

A  brief  time  so ;  and  then  the  blue-eyed  boy 
Sank  down  convulsed,  as  if  to  him  appeared 
Strange  sights  that  they  saw  not ;  and  all  afeard 
Grew  the  late  joyous  people  with  vague  dread  ; 
And  loud  the  mother  wailed  above  her  dead. 

The  ship  steered  in  and  found  a  bay,  and  then 
The  anchor  plunged  aweary-like  :  the  men 
Breathed  breaths  of  rest  at  treading  land  agen. 

Upon  the  beach  by  Christian  men  untrod 

* 

The  wanderers  kneeling  offered  up  to  God 

The  land's  first-fruits  ;  and  nigh  the  kneeling  band 

The  burdened  mother  sat  upon  the  sand, 

And  still  she  wailed,  not  praying. 


THE   KING   OF   THE   VASSE.  2/Q 

'Neath  the  wood 

That  lined  the  beach  a  crowd  of  watchers  stood :  ' 
Tall  men  spear-armed,  with  skins  like  dnsky  nig] it, 
And  aspect  blended  of  deep  awe  and  fright. 
The  ship  that  morn  they  saw,  like  some  vast  bird, 
Come  sailing  toward  their  country ;  and  they  heard 
The  voices  now  of  those  strange  men  whose  eyes 
Were  turned  aloft,  who  spake  unto  the  skies  I 

They   heard  and  feared,   not  knowing,  that  first 

prayer, 

But  feared  not  when  the  wail  arose,  for  there 
Was  some  familiar  thing  did  not  appall,  — 
Grief,  common  heritage  and  lot  of  all. 
They  moved  and  breathed  more  freely  at  the  cry, 
And  slowly  from  the  wood,  and  timorously, 
They  one  by  one  emerged  upon  the  beach. 
The  white  men  saw,  and  like  to  friends  did  reach 
Their  hands  unarmed ;  and  soon  the  dusky  crowd 
Drew  nigh  and  stood  where  wailed  the   mother 

loud. 
They  claimed  her  kindred,  they  could  understand 


28O      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

That  woe  was  hers  and  theirs ;  whereas  the  band 
Of  white-skinned  men  did  not  as  brethren  seem. 

But  now,  behold !  a  man,  whom  one  would  deem 

From  eye  and  mien,  wherever  met,  a  King, 

Did  stand  beside  the  woman.     No  youth's  spring 

Was  in  the  foot  that  naked  pressed  the  sand ; 

No  warrior's  might  was  in  the  long  dark  hand 

That  waved  his  people  backward ;  no  bright  gold 

Of  lace  or  armor  glittered ;  gaunt  and  old,  — 

A  belt,  half  apron,  made  of  emu-down, 

Upon  his  loins ;  upon  his  head  no  crown 

Save  only  that  which  eighty  years  did  trace 

In  whitened  hair  above  his  furrowed  face. 

Nigh  nude  he  was :  a  short  fur  boka  hung 

In  toga-folds  upon  his  back,  but  flung 

From  his  right  arm  and  shoulder,  —  ever  there 

The  spear-arm  of  the  warrior  is  bare. 

So  stood  he  nigh  the  woman,  gaunt  and  wild 
But  king-like,  spearless,  looking  on  the  child 
That  lay  with  livid  face  upon  her  knees. 


THE    KING    OF    THE    VASSE.  28 1 

Thus  long  and  fixed  he  gazed,  as  one  who  sees 

A  symbol  hidden  in  a  simple  thing, 

And  trembles  at  its  meaning :  so  the  King 

Fell  trembling  there,  and  from  his  breast  there 

broke 

A  cry,  part  joy,  part  fear ;  then  to  his  folk 
With  upraised  hands  he  spoke  one  guttural  word, 
And  said  it  over  thrice  ;  and  when  they  heard, 
They,  too,  were  stricken  with  strange  fear  and  joy. 

The  white-haired  King  then  to  the  breathless  boy 
Drew  closer  still,  while  all  the  dusky  crowd 
In  weird  abasement  to  the  earth  were  bowed. 
Across  his  breast  the  aged  ruler  wore 
A  leathern  thong  or  belt ;  whate'er  it  bore 
Was  hidden  'neath  the  boka.     As  he  drew 
Anigh  the  mother,  from  his  side  he  threw 
Far  back  the  skin  that  made  his  rich-furred  robe, 
And  showed  upon  the  belt  a  small  red  globe 
Of  carven  wood,  bright-polished,  as  with  years : 

« 

When  this  they  saw,  deep  grew  his  people's  fears, 
And    to    the    white    sand    were    then:    foreheads 
pressed. 


282      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

The  King  then  raised  his  arms,  as  if  he  blest 
The  youth  who  lay  there  seeming  dead  and  cold ; 
Then  took  the  globe  and  oped  it,  and  behold ! 
Within  it,  bedded  in  the  carven  case, 
There  lay  a  precious  thing  for  that  rude  race 
To  hold,  though  it  as  God  they  seemed  to  prize,  — 
A  Pearl  of  purest  hue  and  wondrous  size ! 

And  as  the  sunbeams  kissed  it,  from  the  dead 
The  dusk  King  looked,  and  o'er  his  snowy  head 
With  both   long  hands   he   raised   the   enthroned 

gem, 
And  turned  him  toward  the   strangers:    e'en  on 

them 

Before  the  lovely  Thing,  an  awe  did  fall 
To  see  that  worship  deep  and  mystical, 
That  King  with  upraised  god,  like  rev'rent  priest 
With  elevated  Host  at  Christian  feast. 

Then  to  the  mother  turning  slow,  the  King 

» 

Took  out  the  Pearl,  and  laid  the  beauteous  Thing 
Upon  the  dead  boy's  mouth  and  brow  and  breast, 


THE    KING    OF    THE    VASSE.  283 

And  as  it  touched  him,  lo !  the  awful  rest 
Of  death  was  broken,  and  the  youth  uprose  I 


Nine  years  passed  over  since  on  that  fair  shore 
The  wanderers   knelt,  —  but  wanderers  they  no 

more. 

With  hopeful  hearts  they  bore  the  promise-pain 
Of  early  labor,  and  soon  bending  grain 
'And  herds  and  homesteads  and  a  teeming  soil 
A  thousand-fold  repaid  their  patient  toil. 

Nine  times  the  sun's  high  glory  glared  above, 

As  if  his  might  set  naught  on  human  love, 

But  yearned  to  scorn  and  scorch  the  things  that 

grew 

On  man's  poor  home,  till  all  the  forest's  hue 
Of  blessed  green  was  bnrned  to  dusty  brown ; 
And  still  the  ruthless  rays  rained  fiercely  down, 
Till  insects,  reptiles,  shrivelled  as  they  lay, 
And  piteous  cracks,  like  lips,  in  parching  clay 
Sent  silent  pleadings  skyward,  —  as  if  she, 


284      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

The  fruitful,  generous  mother,  plaintively 

Did  wail  for  water.     Lo  !  her  cry  is  heard, 

And  swift,  obedient  to  the  Ruler's  word, 

From  Southern  iceland  sweeps  the  cool  sea  breeze, 

To  fan  the  earth  aad  bless  the  suffering  trees, 

And  bear  dense  clouds  with  bursting  weight  of 

rain 
To  soothe  with  moisture  all  the  parching  pain. 

Oh,  Mercy's  sweetest  symbol !  only  they 
Who  see  the  earth  agape  in  burning  day, 
Who  watch  its  living  things  thirst-stricken  lie, 
And  turn  from  brazen  heaven  as  they  die,  — 
Their  hearts  alone,  the  shadowy  cloud  can  prize 
That  veils  the  sun,  —  as  to  poor  earth-dimmed  eyes 
The  sorrow  comes  to  veil  our  joy's  dear  face, 
All  rich  in  mercy  and  in  God's  sweet  grace  I 

Thrice  welcome,  clouds  from  seaward,  settling  down 
O'er  thirsting  nature !     Now  the  trees'  dull  brown 
Is  washed  away,  and  leaflet  buds  appear, 
And  youngling  undergrowth,  and  far  and  near 


THE   KING   OF   THE   VASSE.  285 

The  bush  is  whispering  in  her  pent-up  glee, 

As  myriad  roots  bestir  them  to  be  free, 

And  drink   the   soaking  moisture ;    while   brignt 

heaven 

Shows  clear,  as  inland  are  the  spent  clouds  driven  ; 
And  oh !  that  arch,  that  sky's  intensate  hue  ! 
That  deep,  God-painted,  unimagined  blue 
Through  which  the  golden  sun  now  smiling  sails, 
And  sends  his  love  to  fructify  the  vales 
That  late  he  seemed  to  curse !     Earth  throbs  and 

heaves 

With  pregnant  prescience  of  life  and  leaves ; 
The  shadows  darken  'neath  the  tall  trees'  screen, 
While  round  their  stems  the  rank  and  velvet  green 
Of  undergrowth  is  deeper  still ;  and  there, 
Within  the  double  shade  and  steaming  air, 
The  scarlet  palm  has  fixed  its  noxious  root, 
And  hangs  the  glorious  poison  of  its  fruit ; 
And  there,  'mid  shaded  green  and  shaded  light, 
The  steel-blue  silent  birds  take  rapid  flight 
From  earth  to  tree  and  tree  to  earth ;  and  there 
The  crimson-plumaged  parrot  cleaves  the  air 


286      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Like  flying  fire,  and  huge  brown  owls  awake 
To  watch,  far  down,  the  stealing  carpet  snake, 
Fresh-skinned  and  glowing  in  his  changing  dyes, 
With  evil  wisdom  in  the  cruel  eyes 
That  glint  like  gems  as  o'er  his  head  flits  by 
The  blue-black  armor  of  the  emperor-fly ; 
And  all  the  humid  earth  displays  its  powers 
Of  prayer,  with  incense  from  the  hearts  of  flowers 
That  load  the  air  with  beauty  and  with  wine 
Of  mingled  color,  as  with  one  design 
Of  making  there  a  carpet  to  be  trod, 
In  woven  splendor,  by  the  feet  of  God  I 

And  high  o'erhead  is  color :  rqund  and  round 

The  towering  gums  and  tuads,  closely  wound 

Like  cables,  creep  the  climbers  to  the  sun, 

And  over  all  the  reaching  branches  run 

And  hang,  and  still  send  shoots  that  climb  and 

wind 

Till  every  arm  and  spray  and  leaf  is  twined, 
And  miles  of  trees,  like  brethren  joined  in  love, 
Are  drawn  and   laced ;    while    round    them   and 

above, 


THE   KING   OF   THE    VASSE.  28/ 

When  all  is  knit,  the  creeper  rests  for  days 
As  gathering  might,  and  then  one  blinding  blaze 
Of  very  glory  sends,  in  wealth  and  strength, 
Of  scarlet  flowers  o'er  the  forest's  length ! 

Such  scenes  as  these  have  subtile  power  to  trace 
Their  clear-lined  impress  on  the  mind  and  face ; 
And  these  strange  simple  folk,  not  knowing  why, 
Grew  more  and  more  to  silence  ;  and  the  eye, 
The  quiet  eye  of  Swedish  gray,  grew  deep 
With  listening  to  the  solemn  rustling  sweep 
From  wings  of  Silence,  and  the  earth's  great  psalm 
Intoned  forever  by  the  forest's  calm. 

But  most  of  all  was  younger  Jacob  changed : 
From  morn  till  night,  alone,  the  woods  he  ranged, 
To  kindred,  pastime,  sympathy  estranged. 
Since  that  first  day  of  landing  from  the  ship 
When  with  the  Pearl  on  brow  and  breast  and  lip 
The  aged  King  had  touched  him  and  he  rose. 
His  former  life  had  left  him,  and  he  chose 
The  woods  as  home,  the  wild,  uncultured  men 
As  friends  and  comrades.     It  were  better  then, 


288      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

His  brethren  said,  the  boy  had  truly  died 
Than  they  should  live  to  be  by  him  denied, 
As  now  they  were.     He  lived  in  sombre  mood, 
He  spoke  no  word  to  them,  he  broke  no  food 
That  they  did  eat :  his  former  life  was  dead,  — 
The    soul   brought  back  was  not  the   soul   that 

fled! 

'Twas  Jacob's  form  and  feature,  but  the  light 
Within  his  eyes  was  strange  unto  their  sight. 

His  mother's  grief  was  piteous  to  see : 

Unloving  was  he  to  the  rest,  but  she 

Held  undespairing  hope  that  deep  within 

Her  son's  changed  heart  was  love  that  she  might 

win 

By  patient  tenderness ;  and  so  she  strove 
For  nine  long  years,  but  won  no  look  of  love  I 

At  last  his  brethren  gazed  on  him  with  awe, 
And  knew  untold  that  from  the  form  they  saw 
Their  brother's  gentle  mind  was  sure  dispelled, 
And  now  a  gloomy  savage  soul  it  held. 


THE    KING    OF    THE    VASSE.  289 

From  that  first  day,  close  intercourse  he  had 
With    those   who    raised    him    up,  —  fierce   men, 

.  unclad, 

Spear-armed  and  wild,  in  all  their  ways  uncouth, 
And  strange  to  every  habit  of  his  youth. 
His  food  they  brought,  his  will   they  seemed  to 

crave, 

The  wildest  bushman  tended  like  a  slave  ; 
He  worked  their  charms,  their  hideous  chants  he 

sung; 

Though  dumb  to  all  his  own,  their  guttural  tongue 
He  often  spoke  in  tones  of  curt  command, 
And  kinged  it  proudly  o'er  the  dusky  band. 

And  once  each  year  there  gathered  from  afar 

A  swarming  host,  as  if  a  sudden  war 

Had  called  them  forth,  and  with  them  did  they 

bring 

In  solemn,  savage  pomp  the  white-haired  King, 
Who  year  by  year  more  withered  was  and  weak ; 
And  he  would  lead  the  youth  apart  and  speak 


SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Some  occult  words,  and  from  the  carven  case 
Would  take  the  Pearl  and  touch  the  young  man's 

face, 

And  hold  it  o'er  him  blessing ;  while  the  crowd, 
As  on  the  shore,  in  dumb  abasement  bowed. 
And  when  the  King  had  closed  the  formal  rite, 
The  rest  held  savage  revelry  by  night, 
Round  blazing  fires,  with  dance  and  orgies  base, 
That  roused  the  sleeping  echoes  of  the  place, 
Which  down  the  forest  vistas  moaned  the  din, 
Like  spirits  pure  beholding  impious  sin. 

Nine  times  they  gathered  thus ;  but  on  the  last 
The  old  king's  waning  life  seemed  well-nigh  past. 
His   feeble    strength  had    failed :    he   walked   no 

more, 

But  on  a  woven  spear-wood  couch  they  bore 
With  careful  tread  the  form  that  barely  gasped, 
As  if  the  door  of  death  now  hung  unhasped, 
Awaiting  but  a  breath  to  swing,  and  show 
The  dim  eternal  plain  that  stretched  below. 


THE    KING    OF    THE    VASSE.  2QI 

The  tenth  year  waned :    the  cloistered  bush  was 

stilled, 

The  earth  lay  sleeping,  while  the  clouds  distilled 
In  ghostly  veil  their  blessing.     Thin  and  white, 
Through  opening  trees  the  moonbeams  cleft  the 

night, 

And  showed  the  sombre  arches,  taller  far 
Than  grandest  aisles  of  built  cathedrals  are. 
And  up  those  dim-lit  aisles  in  silence  streamed 
Tall  men  with  trailing  spears,  until  it  seemed, 
So  many  lines  converged  of  endless  length, 
A  nation  there  was  gathered  in  its  strength. 

Around  one  spot  was  kept  a  spacious  ring, 
Where  lay  the  body  of  the  white-haired  King, 
Which  all  the  spearmen  gathered  to  behold 
Upon  its  spear-wood  litter,  stiff  and  cold. 
All  naked,  there  the  dusky  corse  was  laid 
Beneath  a  royal  tuad's  mourning  shade  ; 
Upon  the  breast  was  placed  the  carven  case 
That  held  the  symbol  of  their  ancient  race, 


292      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

And  eyes  awe-stricken  saw  the  mystic  Thing 
That  soon  would  clothe  another  as  their  King ! 
The  midnight  moon  was  high  and  white  overhead, 
And  threw  a  ghastly  pallor  round  the  dead 
That  heightened  still  the  savage  pomp  and  state 
In  which  they  stood  expectant,  as  for  Fate 
To  move  and  mark  with  undisputed  hand 
The  one  amongst  them  to  the  hi^h  command. 

O  O 

And  long  they  stood  unanswered  ;  each  on  each 
Had  looked  in  vain  for  motion  or  for  speech : 
Unmoved  as  ebon  statues,  grand  and  tall, 
They  ringed  the  shadowy  circle,  silent  all. 

Then  came  a  creeping  tremor,  as  a  breeze 
With  cooling  rustle  moves  the  summer  trees 
Before  the  thunder  crashes  on  the  ear ; 
The  dense  ranks  turn  expectant,  as  they  hear 
A  sound,  at  first  afar,  but  nearing  fast ; 
The  outer  crowd  divides,  as  waves  are  cast 
On  either  side  a  tall  ship's  cleaving  bow, 
Or  mould  is  parted  by  the  fearless  plough 
That  leaves  behind  a  passage  clear  and  broad : 


THE    KING    OF    THE    VASSE.  293 

So  through  the  murmuring  multitude  a  roail 
Was  cleft  with  power,  up  which  in  haughty  swing 
A  figure  stalking  broke  the  sacred  ring, 
And  stood  beside  the  body  of  the  King ! 

'Twos  Jacob  Eibsen,  sad  and  gloomy-browed, 
Who    bared    his   neck  and  breast,    one   moment 

bowed 

Above  the  corse,  and  then  stood  proud  and  tall, 
And  held  the  carven  case  before  them  all ! 
A  breath  went  upward  like  a  smothered  fright 
From  every  heart,  to  see  that  face,  so  white, 
So  foreign  to  their  own,  but  marked  with  might 
From  source  unquestioned,  and  to  them  divine  ; 
Whilst  he,  the  master  of  the  mystic  sign, 
Then  oped  the  case  and  took  the  Pearl  and  raised, 
As  erst  the  King  had  done,  and  upward  gazed, 
As  swearing  fealty  to  God  on  high  ! 

But  ere  the  oath  took  form,  there  thrilled  a  cry 
Of  shivering  horror  through  the  hush  of  night ; 
And  there  before  him,  blinded  by  the  sight 


294      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Of  all  his  impious  purpose,  brave  with  love, 
His  mother  stood,  and  stretched  her  arms  above 
To  tear  the  idol  from  her  darling's  hand  ; 
But  one  fierce  look,  and  rang  a  harsh  command 
In  Jacob's  voice,  that  smote  her  like  a  sword. 
A  thousand  men  sprang  forward  at  the  word, 
To  tear  the  mother  from  the  form  of  stone, 
And  cast  her  forth  ;  but,  as  he  stood  alone, 
The  keen,  heart-broken  wail  that  cut  the  air 
Went  two-edged  through  him,  half  reproach,  half 
prayer. 

But  all  unheeding,  he  nor  marked  her  cry 
By  sign  or  look  within  the  gloomy  eye  ; 
But  round  his  body  bound  the  carven  case, 
And  swore  the  fealty  with  marble  face. 

As  fades  a  dream  before  slow-waking  sense, 
The  shadowy  host,  that  late  stood  fixed  and  dense, 
Began  to  melt ;  and  as  they  came  erewhile, 
The  streams  flowed  backward  through  each  moon 
lit  aisle ; 


THE    KING    OF    THE    VASSE.  2Q5 

And  soon  he  stood  alone  within  the  place, 
Their  new-made  king,  • —  their  king  with  pallid  face, 
Their  king  with  strange  foreboding  and  unrest, 
And  half-formed  thoughts,  like  dreams,  within  his 

breast. 

Like  Moses'  rod,  that  mother's  cry  of  woe 
Had  struck  for  water ;  but  the  fitful  flow 
That  weakly  welled  and  streamed  did  seem  U 

mock 
Before  it  died  forever  on  the  rock. 

The  sun  rose  o'er  the  forest,  and  his  light 
Made  still  more  dreamlike  all  the  evil  night. 
Day  streamed  his  glory  down  the  aisles'  dim  arch, 
All  hushed  and  shadowy  like  a  pillared  church  ; 
And  through  the  lonely  bush  no  living  thing 
Was  seen,  save  now  and  then  a  garish  wing 
Of  bird  low-flying  on  its  silent  way. 

But  woful  searchers  spent  the  weary  day 
In   anxious    dread,   and   found    not   what    thej 
sought,  — 


296      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Their  mother  and  their  brother :  evening  brought 
A  son  and  father  to  the  lonesome  place 
That  saw  the  last  night's  scene  ;  and  there,  her  face 
Laid  earthward,  speaking  dumbly  to  her  heart, 
They  found  her,  as  the  hands  that  tore  apart 
The  son  and  mother  flung  her  from  their  chief, 
And  with  one  cry  her  heart  had  spent  its  grief. 

They  bore  the  cold  earth  that  so  late  did  move 

In  household  happiness  and  works  of  love, 

Unto  their  rude  home,  lonely  now  ;  and  he 

Who  laid  her  there,  from  present  misery 

Did  turn  away,  half-blinded  by  his  tears, 

To  see  with  inward  eye  the  far-off  years 

When  Swedish    toil    was    light    and    hedgerows 

sweet ; 

Where,  when  the  toil  was  o'er,  he  used  to  meet 
A  simple  gray-eyed  girl,  with  sun-browned  face, 
Whose  love  had  won  his  heart,  and  whose  sweet 

grace 
Had  blessed  for  threescore  years  his  humble  life. 


THE    KING    OF    THE    VASSE.  CO/ 

So  Jacob  Eibsen  mourned  his  faithful  wife, 

And  found  the  world  no  home  when  she  was  gone. 

The  days  that  seemed  of  old  to  hurry  on 

Now  dragged  their  course,  and  marred   the  wish 

that  grew, 

When  first  he  saw  her  grave,  to  sleep  there  too. 
But  though  to  him,  whose  yearling  hope  outran 
The  steady  motion  of  the  seasons'  plan, 
The  years  were  slow  in  coming,  still  their  pace 
With  awful  sureness  left  a  solemn  trace, 
Like  dust  that  settles  on  an  open  page, 
On  Jacob  Eibsen's  head,  bent  down  with  age ; 
And  ere  twice  more  the  soothing  rains  had  come, 
The  old  man  had  his  wish,  and  to  his  home, 
Beneath  the  strange  trees'  shadow  where  she  lay, 
They  bore  the  rude-made  bier ;  and  from  that  day, 
When  round  the  parent  graves  the  brethren  stood, 
Their  new-made  homesteads  were  no  longer  good, 
But  marked  they  seemed   by  some   o'erhanging 

dread 
That  linked  the  living  with  the  dreamless  dead. 


298      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  DALLADS. 

Grown  silent  with  the  woods  the  men  were  all, 
But  words  were  needed  not  to  note  the  pall 
That  each   one   knew  hung   o'er  them.      Duties 

now, 

With  straying  herds  or  swinging  scythe,  or  plough, 
Were  cheerless  tasks  :   like  men  they  were  who 

wrought 

A  weary  toil  that  no  repayment  brought. 
And  when  the  seasons  came  and  went,  and  still 
The  pall  was  hanging  o'er  them,  with  one  will 
They  yoked  their  oxen  teams  and  piled  the  loads 
Of  gear  selected  for  the  aimless  roads 
That  nature  opens  through  the  bush  ;  and  when 
The  train  was  ready,  women-folk  and  men 
Went  over  to  the  graves  and  wept  and  prayed, 
Then  rose  and  turned  away,  but  still  delayed 
Ere  leaving  there  forever  those  poor  mounds. 

The    next    bright    sunrise    heard   the   teamsters' 

.sounds 

Of  voice  and  whip  a  long  day's  march  away  ; 
And  wider  still  the  space  grew  day  by  day 


THE    KING   OF    THE    VASSE.  299 

From  their  old  resting-place :  the  trackless  wood 
Still  led  them  on  with  promises  of  good, 
As  when  the  mirage  leads  a  thirsty  band 
With  palm-tree  visions  o'er  the^arid  sand. 

I  know  not  where  they  settled  down  at  last : 
Their  lives   and   homes  from  out  my  tale   have 

passed, 

And  left  me  naught,  or  seeming  naught,  to  trace 
But  cheerless  record  of  the  empty  place, 
Where  long  unseoii  the  palm-thatched  cabins  stood, 
And  made  more  lonely  still  the  lonesome  wood. 

Long  lives  of  men  passed  over  ;  but  the  years, 
That  line  men's  faces  with  hard  cares  and  tears, 
Pass  lightly  o'er  a  forest,  leaving  there 
No  wreck  of  young  disease  or  old  despair ; 
For  trees  are  mightier  than  men,  and  Time, 
When    left    by  cunning    Sin    and    dark-brc  \\ ed 

Crime 

To  work  alone,  hath  ever  gentle  mood. 
Unchanged  the  pillars  and  the  arches  stood , 


3<X)      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

But  shadowed  taller  vistas  ;  and  the  earth, 
That  takes  and  gives  the  ceaseless  death  and  birth, 
Was  blooming  still,  as  once  it  bloomed  before 
When  sea-tired  ej-es  beheld  the  beauteous  shore. 

But  man's  best  work  is   weak,   nor  stands   n»r 

grows 

Like  Nature's  simplest.     Every  breeze  that  blows, 
Health-bearing  to  the  forest,  plays  its  part 
In  hasting  graveward  all  his  humble  art. 

Beneath  the  trees  the  cabins  still  remained, 
By  all  the  changing  seasons  seared  and  stained ; 
Grown  old  and  weirdlike,  as  the  folk  might  grow 
In  such  a  place,  who  left  them  long  ago. 

Men   came,  and   wondering  found   the  work   of 

men 
Where  they  had  deemed  them  first.     The  savage 

then 
Heard  through  the  wood   the   axe's   deathwatch 

stroke 
For  him  and  all  his  people  :  odorous  smoke 


THE    KING    OF    THE    VASSE.  3<DI 

Of  burning  sandal  rose  where  white  men  dwelt, 

Around  the  huts  ;  but  they  had  shuddering  felt 

The  weird,  forbidden  aspect  of  the  spot, 

And  left  the  place  untouched  to  mould  and  rot. 

The  woods  grew  blithe  with  labor  :   all  around, 

From  point  to  point,  was  heard  the  hollow  sound, 

The  solemn,  far-off  clicking  on  the  ear 

That  marks  the  presence  of  the  pioneer. 

And  children  came  like  flowers  to  bless  the  toil 

That  reaped  rich  fruitage  from  the  virgin  soil ; 

And  through  the  woods  they  wandered  fresh  and 

fair, 

To  feast  on  all  the  beauties  blooming  there. 
But  always  did  they  shun  the  spot  where  grew, 
From  earth  once  tilled,  the  flowers  of  rarest  hue. 
There    wheat    grown    wild    in    rank    luxuriance 

spread, 

And  fruits  grown  native  ;  but  a  sudden  tread 
Or  bramble's  fall  would  foul  goanos  wake, 
Or  start  the  chilling  rustle  of  the  snake  ; 
And  diamond  eyes  of  these  and  thousand  more, 
Gleamed  out  from  ruined  roof  and  wall  and  floor. 


3O2      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

The  new-come  people,  they  whose  axes  rung 
Throughout  the  forest,  spoke  the  English  tongue, 
And  never  knew  that  men  of  other  race 
From  Europe's  fields  had  settled  in  the  place  ; 
But  deemed  these  huts  were  built  some  long-past 

day 

By  lonely  seamen  who  were  cast  away 
And  thrown  upon  the  coast,  who  there  had  built 
Their  homes,  and  lived  until  some  woe  or  guilt 
Was  bred  among  them,  and  they  fled  the  sight 
Of  scenes  that  held  a  horror  to  the  light. 

But  while  they  thought  such  things,  the  spell  that 

hung, 

And  cast  its  shadow  o'er  the  place,  was  strung 
To  utmost  tension  that  a  breath  would  break, 
And  .show  between  the  rifts  the  deep  blue  lake 
Of  blessed  peace,  —  as  next  to  sorrow  lies 
A  stretch  of  rest,  rewarding  hopeful  eyes. 
And  while  such  things  bethought  this  new-come 

folk, 
That  breath  was  breathed,  the  olden   spell  was 

broke : 


THE   KING   OF   THE   VASSE.  303 

From  far  away  within  the  unknown  land, 
O'er  belts  of  forest  and  o'er  wastes  of  sand, 
A  cry  came  thrilling,  like  a  cry  of  pain 
From  suffering  heart  and  half-awakened  brain  ; 
As  one  thought  dead  who  wakes  within  the  tomb, 
And,  reaching,  cries  for  sunshine  in  the  gloom. 

Li  that  strange  country's  heart,  whence  comes  the 

breath 

Of  hot  disease  and  pestilential  death, 
Lie  leagues  of  wooded  swamp,  that  from  the  hills 
Seem  stretching  meadows  ;  but  the  flood  that  fills 
Those  valley-basins  has  the  hue  of  ink, 
And  dismal  doorways  open  on  the  brink, 
Beneath  the  gnarled  arms  of  trees  that  grow 
All  leafless  to  the  top,  from  roots  below 
The  Lethe  flood  ;  and  he  who  enters  there 
Beneath  their  screen  sees  rising,  ghastly-bare, 
Like  mammoth  bones  within  a  charnel  dark, 
The  white  and  ragged  stems  of  paper-bark, 
That  drip  down  moisture  with  a  ceaseless  drip, 
From  lines  that  run  like  cordage  of  a  ship  ; 


3O4      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

For  myriad  creepers  struggle  to  trie  light, 

And    twine     and    mat    o'erhead     in     murderous 

fight 

For  life  and  sunshine,  like  another  race 
That  wars  on  brethren  for  the  highest  place. 
Between  the  water  and  the  matted  screen, 
The  baldhead  vultures,  two  and  two,  are  seen 
In  dismal  grandeur,  with  revolting  face 
Of  foul  grotesque,  like  spirits  of  the  place  ; 
And  now  and  then  a  spear-shaped  wave  goes  by, 
Its  apex  glittering  with  an  evil  eye 
That  sets  above  its  enemy  and  prey, 
As  from  the  wave  in  treacherous,  slimy  way 
The  black  snake  winds,  and  strikes  the  bestial  bird, 
Whose  shriek-like  wailing  on  the  hills  is  heard. 

Beyond  this  circling  swamp,  a  circling  waste 
Of  baked  and  barren  desert  land  is  placed,  — 
A  land  of  awful  grayness,  wild  and  stark, 
Where  man  will  never  leave  a  deeper  mark, 
On  leagues  of  fissured  clay  and  scorching  stones, 
Than  may  be  printed  there  by  bleaching  bones. 


THE    KING    OF    THE    VASSE.  305 

Within  this  belt,  that  keeps  a  savage  guard, 
As  round  a  treasure  sleeps  a  dragon  ward, 
A  forest  stretches  far  of  precious  trees  ; 
Whence  came,  one  day,  an  odor-laden  breeze 
Of  jam-wood  bruised,  and  sandal  sweet  in  smoke. 
For  there  long  dwelt  a  numerous  native  folk 
In  that  heart-garden  of  the  continent,  — 
There   human   lives   with    aims    and    fears  were 

spent, 

And  marked  by  love  and  hate  and  peace  and  pain, 
And  hearts  well-filled  and  hearts  athirst  for  gain, 
And  lips  that  clung,  and  faces  bowed  in  shame  ; 
For,  wild  or  polished,  man  is  still  the  same, 
And  loves  and  hates  and  envies  in  the  wood, 
With  spear  and  boka  and  with  manners  rude, 
As  loves  and  hates  his  brother  shorn  and  sleek, 
Who  learns  by  lifelong  practice  how  to  speak 
With  oily  tongue,  while  in  his  heart  below 
Lies  rankling  poison  that  he  dare  not  show. 

Afar  from  all  new  ways  this  people  dwelt, 
And  knew  no  books,  and  to  no  God  had  knelt, 


3O6      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

And  had  no  codes  to  rule  them  writ  in  blood ; 
But  savage,  selfish,  nomad-lived  and  rude, 
With  human  passions  fierce  from  unrestraint, 
And  free  as  their  loose  limbs ;  with  every  taint 
That  earth  can  give  to  that  which  God  has  given  ; 
Their  nearest  glimpse  of  Him,  o'er-arching  heaven, 
Where  dwelt  the  giver  and  preserver,  —  Light, 
Who  daily  slew  and  still  was  slain  by  Night. 

A  savage  people  they,  and  prone  to  strife  ; 

Yet  men  grown  weak  with  years  had  spent  a  life 

Of  peace  unbroken,  and  their  sires,  long  dead, 

Had  equal  lives  of  peace  unbroken  led. 

It  was  no  statute's  bond  or  coward  fear 

Of  retribution  kept  the  shivering  spear 

In  all  those  years  from  fratricidal  sheath ; 

But  one   it   was   who   ruled   them,  —  one   whom 

Death 

Had  passed  as  if  he  saw  not,  —  one  whose  word 
Through  all  that  lovely  central  land  was  heard 
And  bowed  to,  as  of  yore  the  people  bent, 
In  desert  wanderings,  to  a  leader  sent 


THE   KING   OF   THE   VASSE.  307 

To  guide  and  guard  them  to  a  promised  land. 
O'er  all  the  Austral  tribes  he  held  command,  — 
A  man  unlike  them  and  not  of  their  race, 
A  man  of  flowing  hair  and  pallid  face, 
A  man  who  strove  by  no  deft  juggler's  art 
To  keep  his  kingdom  in  the  people's  heart, 
Nor  held  his  place  by  feats  of  brutal  might 
Or  showy  skill,  to  please  the  savage  sight ; 
But  one  who  ruled  them  as  a  King  of  kings, 
A  man  above,  not  of  them,  —  one  who  brings, 
To  prove  his  kingship  to  the  low  and  high, 
The  inborn  power  of  the  regal  eye ! 

Like  him  of  Sinai  with  the  stones  of  law, 

Whose  people  almost  worshipped  when  they  saw 

The  veiled  face  whereon  God's  glory  burned  ; 

But  yet  who,  mutable  as  water,  turned 

From  that  veiled  ruler  who  had  talked  with  God, 

To  make  themselves  an  idol  from  a  clod  : 

So  turned  one  day  this  savage  Austral  race 

Against  their  monarch  with  the  pallid  face. 

The  young  men  knew  him  not,  the  old  had  heard 

In  far-off  days,  from  men  grown  old,  a  word  - 


3O8      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

That  dimly  lighted  up  the  mystic  choice 
Of  this  their  alien  King,  —  how  once  a  voice 
Was  heard  by  their  own  monarch  calling  clear, 
And  leading  onward,  where  as  on  a  bier 
A  dead  child  lay  upon  a  woman's  knees  ; 
Whom  when  the  old  King  saw,  like  one  who  sees 
Far  through  the  mist  of  common  life,  he  spoke 
And  touched  him  with  the  Pearl,  and  he  awoke, 
And  from  that  day  the  people  owned  his  right 
To  wear  the  Pearl  and  rule  them,  when  the  light 
Had  left  their  old  King's  eyes.    But  now,  they  said, 
The   men  who   owned  that  right  were  too  long 

dead; 
And  they  were  young  and  strong  and  held  their 

spears 

In  idle  resting  through  this  white  King's  fears, 
Who  still  would  live  to  rule  them  till  they  changed 
Their  men  to  puling  women,  and  estranged 
To  Austral  hands  the  spear  and  coila  grew. 

And  so  they  rose  against  him,  and  they  slew 
The  white-haired  men  who  raised  their  hands  to 
warn, 


THE    KING    OF   THE    VASSE.  309 

And  true  to  ancient  trust  in  warning  fell, 
While  o'er  them  rang  the  fierce  revolters'  yell. 
Then  midst  the  dead  uprose  the  King  in  scorn, 
Like   some   strong,   hunted   thing   that  stands  at 

bay 

To  win  a  brief  but  desperate  delay. 
A  moment  thus,  and  those  within  the  ring 
'Gan  backward  press  from  their  unarmed  King, 
Who  swept  his  hand  as  though  he  bade  them  fly, 
And  brave  no  more  the  anger  of  his  eye. 
The  heaving  crowd  grew  still  before  that  face, 
And  watched  him  take  the  ancient  carven  case, 
And  ope  it  there,  and  take  the  Pearl  and  stand 
As  once  before  he  stood,  with  upraised  hand 
And  upturned  eyes  of  inward  worshipping. 

Awe-struck  and  dumb,  once  more  they  owned  him 

King, 

And  humbly  crouched  before  him  ;  when  a  sound, 
A  whirring  sound  that  thrilled  them,  passed  o'er- 

head, 
And  with  a  spring  they  rose :  a  spear  had  sped 


3IO      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

"With  aim  unerring  and  with  deathful  might, 
And  split  the  awful  centre  of  their  sight,  — 
The  upraised  Pearl  !     A  moment  there  it  shone 
Before  the  spear-point,  —  then  forever  gone  ! 


The  spell  that  long  the  ruined  huts  did  shroud 

Was  rent  and  scattered,  as  a  hanging  cloud 

In  moveless  air  is  torn  and  blown  away 

By  sudden  gust  uprising ;  and  one  day 

When  evening's  lengthened  shadows  came  to  hush 

The  children's  voices,  and  the  awful  bush 

Was  lapt  in  sombre  stillness,  and  on  high 

Above  the  arches  stretched  the  frescoed  sky,  — 

When  all  the  scene  such  chilling  aspect  wore 

As  marked  one  other  night  long  years  before, 

When  through  the  reaching  trees  the   moonlight 

shone 

Upon  a  prostrate  form,  and  o'er  it  one 
With  kingly  gesture.     Now  the  light  is  shed 
No  more  on  youthful  brow  and  daring  head, 


THE    KING    OF    THE    VASSE.  31 1 

But  on  a  man  grown  weirdly  old,  whose  face 

Keeps  turning  ever  to  some  new-found  place 

That  rises  up  before  him  like  a  dream  ; 

And  not  unlike  a  dreamer  does  he  seem, 

Who    might    have    slept,   unheeding    time's  sure 

flow, 

And  woke  to  find  a  world  he  does  not  know. 
IJis  long  white  hair  flows  o'er  a  form  low  bowed 
By  wondrous  weight  of  years  :  he  speaks  aloud 
In  garbled  Swedish  words,  with  piteous  wist, 
As  long-lost  objects  rise  through  memory's  mist. 
Again  and  once  again  his  pace  he  stays, 
As  crowding  images  of  other  days 
Loom  up  before  him  dimly,  and  he  sees 
A  vague,  forgotten  friendship  in  the  trees 
That  reach  their  arms  in  welcome ;  but  agen 
These  olden  glimpses  vanish,  and  dark  men 
Are  round  him,   dumb   and    crouching,   and    Le 

stands 

With  guttural  sentences  and  upraised  hands, 
That  hold  a  carven  case,  —  but  empty  now, 
Which  makes  more  pitiful  the  aged  brow 


312      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

Full-turned  to  those  tall  tuads  that  did  hear 
A  son's  fierce  mandate  and  a  mother's  prayer. 

Ah,  God !  what  memories  can  live  of  these, 
Save  only  with  the  half-immortal  trees 
That  saw  the  death  of  one,  the  other  lost  ? 

The  weird-like  figure  now  the  Lush  has  crost 
A.nd  stands  within  the  ring,  and  turns  and  moans, 
With  arms  out-reaching  and  heart-piercing  tones, 
And  groping  hands,  as  one  a  long  tune  blind 
Who  sees  a  glimmering  light  on  eye  and  mind. 
From  tree  to  sky  he  turns,  from  sky  to  earth, 
And  gasps  as  one  to  whom  a  second  birth 
Of  wondrous  meaning  is  an  instant  shown. 

"Who  is  this  wreck  of  years,  who  all  alone, 
In  savage  raiment  and  with  words  unknown, 
Bows  down  like  some  poor  penitent  who  fears 
The  wrath  of  God  provoked  ?  —  this  man  who  hears 
Around  him  now,  wide  circling  through  the  wood, 
The  breathing  stillness  of  a  multitude  ? 


THE    KING    OF    THE    VASSE.  313 

Who  catches  dimly  through  his  straining  sight 
The  misty  vision  of  an  impious  rite  ? 
Who  hears  from  one  a  cry  that  rends  his  heart, 
And  feels  that  loving  arms  are  torn  apart, 
And  by  his  mandate  fiercely  thrust  aside  ? 
Who  is  this  one  who  crouches  where  she  died, 
With  face  laid  earthward  as  her  face  was  laid, 
And  prays  for  her  as  she  for  him  once  prayed  ? 

'Tis  Jacob  Eibsen,  Jacob  Eibsen's  son, 
Whose  occult  life  and  mystic  rule  are  done, 
And  passed  away  the  memory  from  his  brain. 
'Tis  Jacob  Eibsen,  who  has  come  again 
To  roam  the  woods,  and  see  the  mournful  gleams 
That  flash  and  linger  of  his  old-time  dreams. 

The  morning  found  him  where  he  sank  to  rest 
Within  the  mystic  circle :   on  his  breast 
With  withered  hands,  as  to  the  dearest  place, 
He  held  and  pressed  the  empty  carven  case. 

That  day  he  sought  the  dwellings  of  his  folk  ; 
And  when  he  found  them,  once  again  there  broke 


314      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

The  far-off  light  upon  him,  and  he  cried 
From  that  wrecked  cabin  threshold  for  a  guide 
To  lead  him,  old  and  weary,  to  his  own. 
And  surely  some  kind  spirit  heard  his  moan. 
And  led  him  to  the  graves  where  they  were  laid. 
The  evening  found  him  in  the  tuads'  shade, 
And  like  a  child  at  work  upon  the  spot 
Where  they  were  sleeping,  though  he  knew  it  not 

Next  day  the  children  found  him,  and  they  gazed 

In  fear  at  first,  for  they  were  sore  amazed 

To  see  a  man  so  old  they  never  knew, 

Whose  garb  was   savage,  and  whose  white  hair 

grew 

And  flowed  upon  his  shoulders ;  but  their  awe 
Was  changed  to  love  and  pity  when  they  saw 
The  simple  work  he  wrought  at ;  and  they  came 
And    gathered  flowers  for    him,  and  asked    his 

name, 
And  laughed  at  his  strange  language ;   and   he 

smiled 
To  hear  them  laugh,  as  though  himself  a  child. 


THE    KING    OF    THE    VASSE.  315 

Ere  that  brief  day  was  o'er,  from  far  and  near 
The    children   gathered,  wondering ;  and   though 

fear 

Of  scenes  a  long  time  shunned  at  first  restrained, 
The  speU  was  broken,  and  soon  naught  remained 
But  gladsome  features,  where  of  old  was  dearth 
Of  happy  things  and  cheery  sounds  of  mirth. 
The  lizards  fled,  the  snakes  and  bright-eyed  things 
Found  other  homes,  where  childhood  never  sings  ; 
And  all  because  poor  Jacob,  old  and  wild, 
White-haired  and  fur-clad,  was  himself  a  child. 
Each  day  he  lived  amid  these  scenes,  his  ear 
Heard  far-off  voices  growing  still  more  clear ; 
And  that  dim  light  that  first  he  saw  in  gleams 
Now  left  him  only  in  his  troubled  dreams. 

From  far  away  the  children  loved  to  come 
And  play  and  work  with  Jacob  at  his  home. 
He  learned  their  simple  words  with  childish  lip, 
And  told  them  often  of  a  white-sailed  ship 
That  sailed  across  a  mighty  sea,  and  found 
A  beauteous  harbor,  all  encircled  lound 


3l6      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

With  flowers  and  tall  green  trees ;  but  when  they 

asked 

What  did  the  shipmen  then,  his  mind  was  tasked 
Beyond  its  strength,  and  Jacob  shook  his  head, 
And  with  them  laughed,  for  all  he  knew  was  said 

The  brawny  sawyers  often  ceased  their  toil, 
As  Jacob  with  the  children  passed,  to  smile 
With  rugged  pity  on  their  simple  play ; 
Then,  gazing  after  the  glad  group,  would  say 
How  strange  it  was  to  see  that  snowy  hair 
And  time-worn  figure  with  the  children  fair. 

So  Jacob  Eibsen  lived  through  years  of  joy,  — 
A  patriarch  in  age,  in  heart  a  boy. 
Unto  the  last  he  told  them  of  the  sea 
And  white-sailed  ship  ;  and  ever  lovingly, 
Unto  the  end,  the  garden  he  had  made 
He  tended  daily,  'neath  the  tuads'  shade. 

But  one  bright  morning,  when  the  children  came 
And  roused  the  echoes  calling  Jacob's  name, 


THE    KING   OF    THE    VASSE.  317 

The  echoes  only  answered  back  the  sound. 

They  sought  within  the  huts,  but  nothing  found 

Save  loneliness  and  shadow,  falling  chill 

On  every  sunny  searcher^  boding  ill, 

They  tried   each  well-known  haunt,   and    every 

throat 

Sent  far  abroad  the  bushman's  cooing  note. 
But  all  in  vain  their  searching :  twilight  fell, 
And  sent  them  home  their  son-owing  tale  to  tell. 
That  night  their  elders  formed  a  torch-lit  chain 
To  sweep  the  gloomy  bush ;  and  not  in  vain,  — 
For  when  the  moon  at  midnight  hung  o'erhead, 
The  weary  searchers  found  poor  Jacob  —  dead ! 

He  lay  within  the  tuad  ring,  his  face 
Laid  earthward  on  his  hands  ;  and  all  the  place 
Was  dim  with  shadow  where  the  people  stood. 
And  as  they  gathered  there,  the  circling  wood 
Seemed  filled  with  awful  whisperings,  and  stirred 
By  things  unseen  ;  and  every  bushman  heard, 
From  where  the  corse  lay  plain  within  their  sight, 
A  woman's  heart-wail  rising  on  the  night. 


3l8      SONGS,  LEGENDS,  AND  BALLADS. 

For  over  all  the  darkness  and  the  fear 

* 

That  marked  his  life  from  childhood,  slurring  clear, 
An   arch,   like    God's   bright   rainbow,    stretched 

above, 
And  joined  the  first  and  last,  —  his  mother's  love 

They  dug  a  grave  beneath  the  tuads'  shade, 
Where  all  unknown  to  them  the  bones  were  laid 
Of  Jacob's  kindred  ;  and  a  prayer  was  said 
In  earnest  sorrow  for  the  unknown  dead, 
Round  which  the  children  grouped. 

Upon  the  breast 

The  hands  were  folded  in  eternal  rest ; 
But  still  they  held,  as  dearest  to  that  place 
Where  life  last  throbbed,  the  empty  carven  case. 


OPINIONS  OF  THE  PRESS. 


"SONGS  FROM  THE  SOUTHERN  SEAS." 

BY  JOHN  BOYLE   O'UEII.T.Y. 

I 


Neio  York  Arcadian. 

"  Like  the  smell  of  new-mown  hay,  or  the  first  breath  of  spring,  or  an 
unexpected  kiss  from  well-loved  lips,  or  any  other  sweet,  fresh,  whole 
some,  natural  delight,  is  to  the  professional  reviewer  the  first  perusal  of 
genuine  poetry  by  a  new  writer.  Not  for  a  long  time  have  we  experienced 
so  fresh  and  joyous  a  surprise,  so  perfect  a  literary  treat,  as  has  been  given 
us  by  these  fresh  and  glowing  songs  by  this  young  and  hitherto  utterly 
unknown  poet.  There  is  something  so  thoroughly  new  and  natural  and 
lifelike,  something  so  buoyant  and  wholesome  and  true,  so  much  original 
power  and  boldness  of  touch  in  these  songs,  that  we  feel  at  once  that  we 
are  in  the  presence  of  a  new  power  in  poetry.  This  work  alone  places  its 
author  head  and  shoulder  above  the  rank  and  file  of  contemporary  versi 
fiers.  .  . .  The  closing  passages  of  '  Uncle  Ned's  *  second  tale,  are  in  the 
highest  degree  dramatic,  —  thrilling  the  reader  like  tho  bugle-note  that 
sounds  the  cry  to  arms.  Finally,  several  of  the  poems  are  animated  by  a 
spi  rit  so  affectionate  and  pure,  that  we  feel  constrained  to  love  the  ir  writer, 
offering,  as  they  do  in  this  respect,  so  marked  and  pleasant  a  contrast  with 
too  much  of  the  so-called  poetry  of  these  modern  times." 

Baltimore  Bulletin. 

"  Mr.  O'Reilly  is  a  true  poet  —  no  one  can  read  his  stirring  measures  and 
his  picturesque  descriptive  passages  without  at  once  recognizing  tho  true 
singer,  and  experiencing  tho  contagion  of  his  spirit.  Ho  soars  loftily  and 
grandly,  and  his  song  peals  forth  With  a  rare  roundnesss  and  mellowness 
of  tone  that  cheers  and  inspirits  tho  hearer.  His  subjects  belong  to  the 
open  air,  to  new  fields  or  untrod  wilds,  and  they  are  full  of  healthy 
freshness,  and  the  vigor  of  sturdy,  redundant  life.  We  hail  Mr.  O'Reilly 
with  pleasrre,  and  we  demand  for  him  the  cordial  recognition  he  de 
serves." 


OPINIONS    OF    THE    PRESS. 


Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

"  We  may  safely  say  that  we  lay  these  poems  down  with  a  feeling  of  de 
light  that  there  has  come  among  us  a  true  poet,  who  can  enchant  by  the 
vivid  fire  of  his  pictures  without  having  recourse  to  a  trick  of  words,  or 
the  re-dressing  and  re-torturing  of  old  forgotten  ideas.  These  poems,  for 
the  most  part,  are  fresh  and  lifelike  as  the  lyrics  which  led  our  forefathers 
to  deeds  of  glory.  With  scarce  a  line  of  mawkish  sentiment,  there  is  the 
deep  heart-feeling  of  a  true  poet.  Ilia  descriptions  bear  the  impress  of 
truth  and  the  realism  of  personal  acquaintance  with  the  incidents  de 
scribed.  There  is  the  flow  of  Scott  in  his  narrative  power,  and  the  fire  of 
Macanlay  in  his  trumpet-toned  tales  of  war.  We  are  much  mistaken  if 
this  man  does  not  in  the  course  of  a  few  years  walk  the  course,  -and  show 
the  world  how  narrative  poetry  should  be  written.  He  has  it  in  him,  and 
genius  cannot  be  kept  under  hatches.  Passing  over 'The  Dog  Guard, 'a 
fearful  picture,  we  come  to  'The  Amber  Whale.'  It  is  impossible  to 
describe  the  intense  interest  that  surrounds  this  dramatic  description.  A 
more  exciting  chase  could  hardly  be  conceived,  and  as  we  stand  with 
bated  breath,  while  the  mate  drives  his  lance  home  to  the  vitals,  and  the 
boats  go  hissing  along  in  the  wake  of  the  wounded  monster,  we  seem  to 
behold  the  sea  red  with  blood,  and  mark  the  flukes  as  they  sweep  the  cap 
tain's  boat  into  eternity.  Here  is  a  portion  of  the  story :  — 

" '  Then  we  heard  the  captain's  order,  "  Heave!  "  and  saw  the  harpoon  fly, 
As  the  whales  closed  in  with  their  open  jaws:  a  shock,  and  a  stifled  cry 
Was  all  that  we  heard;  then  we  looked  to  see  if  the  crew  were  still 

afloat,  — 

But  nothing  was  there  save  a  dull  red  patch,  and  the  boards  of  the  shat 
tered  boat. 

"  '  But  that  was  no  time  for  monrningwords:  the  other  two  boats  came  in, 
And  one  got  fast  on  the  quarter,  and  one  aft  the  starboard  tin 
Of  the  Amber  Whale.    For  a  minute  he  paused,  as  if  he  were  in  donM 
As  to  whether  'twas  best  to  run  or  fight.    "  Lay  onl  "  the  mate  roared 

out, 
"And  I'll  give  him  a  lance!"    The  boat  shot  in;  and  the  mate,  when  he 

saw  his  chance 
Of  sending  it  home  to  the  vitals,  four  times  he  bnried  his  lance.' 

"  We  next  come  to  '  The  Dnkite  Snake,'  a  tale  so  simply  told,  so  beauti 
fully  sad,  that  the  heart  goes  out  in  pity  to  the  poor  young  husband  in  his 
terrible  grief.  The  Dnkite  Snake  never  goes  alone.  When  one  is  killed 
the  other  will  follow  to  the  confines  of  the  earth,  but  he  will  have  revenge. 
Upon  this  fact  the  poet  has  wrought  a  picture  so  true  and  so  dramatic  that 
it  almost  chills  the  blood  to  read  a  tale  so  cruel  and  so  life-like.  .  .  .  Among 
the  remaining  poems  of  length,  we  have '  The  Fishermen  of  Wexford," '  The 
Flying  Dutchman,'  and '  Uncle  Ned's  Tales.'  All  are  good;  but  the  last  are 


OPINIONS    OF    THE    PRESS. 


simply  superb.  We  doubt  if  more  vivid  pictures  of  war  were  ever  drawn. 
The  incidents  are  detailed  with  such  lifelike  force,  that  to  any  one  who  had 
ever  felt  the  enthusiastic  frenzy  of  battle,  they  bring  back  the  sounds  of  the 
shells  and  the  shout  of  advancing  columns.  They  are  lifelike  as  the  pages 
of  Tacitus,  and  stir  the  blood  to  a  fever  heat  of  warlike  enthusiasm.  They 
are  strains  to  make  soldiers." 

London  Athenaeum. 

"  MR.  O'REILLY  is  the  poet  of  a  far  land.  He  sings  of  Western  Aus 
tralia,  that  poorest  and  loveliest  of  all  the  Australias,  which  has  received 
from  the  mother  country  only  her  shame  and  her  crime.  Mr.  O'Reilly, 
in  a  short  poem,  speaks  of  the  land  as  '  discovered  ere  the  fitting  time,' 
endowed  with  a  peerless  clime,  but  having  birds  that  do  not  sing,  flowers 
that  give  no  scent,  and  trees  that  do  not  fructify.  Scenes  and  incidents, 
however,  known  to  the  author,  in  this  perfuineless  and  mute  land,  have 
been  reproduced  by  Min  in  a  series  of  poems  of  much  beauty.  '  The 
King  of  the  Vasse,'  a  legend  of  the  bush,  is  a  weird  and  deeply  pathetic 
poem,  admirable  alike  for  its  conception  and  execution." 

Atlantic  Monthly. 
"  In  a  modest,  well-worded  prelude,  the  poet  says:  — 

"  'From  that  fair  land  and  drear  land  in  the  South, 

Of  which  through  years  I  do  not  cease  to  think, 
I  brought  a  tale,  learned  not  by  word  of  mouth, 

l$ut  formed  by  finding  here  one  golden  link 
Anil  there  another;  anil  with  hands  unskilled 

For  such  tine  work,  but  patient  of  all  pain 
For  love  of  it,  I  sought  therefrom  to  build 

What  might  have  been  at  first  the  goodly  chain. 

"  '  It  is  not  golden  now:  my  craft  knows  more 

Of  working  baser  metal  than  of  fine; 
But  to  those  fate-wrought  rings  of  precious  ore 
I  add  these  rugged  iron  links  of  mine.' 

"This  is  not  claiming  enough  for  himself,  but  the  reader  the  more 
gladly  does  him  justice  because  of  his  modesty,  and  perhaps  it  is  thia 
quality  in  the  author  which  oftenest  commends  his  book.  '  The  King  of 
the  Vasse '  is  the  story  of  a  child  of  the  first  Swedish  emigrants  to  Aus 
tralia,  who  lies  dead  in  his  mother's  arms  when  they  land.  A  native  chief, 
coming  with  all  his  people  to  greet  the  strangers,  touches  the  boy's  fore 
head  with  a  great  pearl,  which  he  keeps  in  a  carven  case  or  shrine,  and 
the  mighty  magic  of  it  calls  him  back  to  life,  but  with  a  savage  soul,  as  his 
kindred  believe;  for  he  deserts  them  for  th«  natives,  over  whom  he 


OPINIONS    OF    THE    PRESS. 


rales  many  years,  inheriting  and  wearing  the  magic  pearl.  At  last  the 
young  meu  of  the  tribe  begin  to  question  his  authority,  and  one  of  them, 
with  a  spear-thrust,  destroys  the  great  pearl.  Jacob  Eibsen  then  seems 
repossessed  by  a  white  man's  soul,  and  returns  to  the  spot  long  since 
abandoned  by  his  kindred,  and  finds  it  occupied  by  English  settlers,  whose 
children's  simple,  childlike  playmate  he  becomes,  and  remains  till  death. 
The  plot  is  good;  and  it  is  always  managed  with  a  sober  simplicity,  which 
forms  an  excellent  ground  for  some  strong  dramatic  effects.  The  Austra 
lian  scenery  and  air  and  natural  life  are  everywhere  summoned  round 
the  story  without  being  forced  upon  the  reader.  Here,  for  instance,  is 
a  picture  at  once  vivid  and  intelligible,  —  which  is  not  always  the  case 
with  the  vivid  pictures  of  the  word-painters.  Alter  the  rains  begin  in  that 
southern  climate,  — 

"  '  Earth  throbs  and  heaves 

"With  pregnant  prescience  of  life  and  leaves; 

The  shadows  darken  'neath  the  tall  trees'  screen. 

While  round  their  stems  the  rank  and  velvet  green 

Of  undergrowth  is  deeper  still;  and  there, 

Within  the  double  shade  and  steauiing  air, 

The  scarlet  palm  has  fixed  its  noxious  root, 

And  hangs  the  glorious  poison  of  its  fruit; 

And  there,  'mid  shaded  green  and  shaded  light, 

The  steel-blue  silent  birds  take  rapid  flight 

From  earth  to  tree  and  tree  to  earth ;  and  there 

The  crimson-plumaged  parrot  cleaves  the  air 

Like  flying  tire,  and  huge  brown  owls  awake 

To  watch,  far  down,  the  stealing  carpet-snake, 

Fresh-skinned  ami  glowing  in  his  changing  dyes, 

With  evil  wisdom  in  the  cruel  eyes 

That  glint  like  gems  as  o'er  his  head  flits  by 

The  blue-black  armor  of  the  emperor-fly; 

And  all  the  humid  earth  displays  its  powers 

Of  prayer,  with  incense  from  the  hearts  of  flowers 

That  load  the  air  with  beauty  and  with  wine 

Of  mingled  color.  .  -  . 

"  '  And  high  o'erhead  is  color:  round  and  round 
The  towering  gums  and  tuads,  closely  wound 
Like  cables,  creep  the  climbers  to  the  sun, 
And  over  all  the  reaching  branches  run 
And  hang,  and  still  send  shoots  that  climb  and  wind 
Till  every  arm  and  spray  and  leaf  is  twined, 
And  miles  of  trees,  like  brethren  joined  in  love, 
Are  drawn  and  laced;  while  round  them  and  above, 
When  all  is  knit,  the  creeper  rests  for  days 
As  gathering  might,  and  then  one  blinding  blaze 
Of  very  glory  send*,  in  wealth  and  strength, 
Of  scarlet  flowers  o'er  the  forest's  length ! ' 

"  There  are  deep  springs  of  familiar  feeling  (as  the  mother's  grief  for 
the  estrangement  of  her  savage-hearted  son)  also  touched  in  this  poem,  in 
which  there  is  due  artistic  sense  and  enjoyment  of  the  weirdness  of  the 


OPINIONS    OF    THE    PRESS. 


motive;  and,  in  short,  we  could  imagine  ourselves  recurring  more  than 
once  to  the  story,  and  liking  it  better  and  better.  '  The  Dog  Guard  '  is  the 
next  best  story  in  the  book ;  —  a  horrible  fact,  treated  with  tragic  realism, 
and  skilfully  kept  from  being  merely  horrible.  .  .  .  Some  of  the  best 
poems  in  the  book  are  the  preludes  to  the  stories." 

Boston  Advertiser. 

"  The  first,  and  in  many  respects  the  best  poem  in  the  book,  is  '  The  King 
of  the  Vasse,"  which  is  a  story  of  the  very  earliest  settlement  of  Australia 
by  Europeans,  and  before  a  convict  settlement  was  established  there. 
There  is  to  it  far  greater  care  and  finish  than  to  any  of  the  other  long 
poems.  In  some  parts  it  is  weird  and  strange  to  a  degree;  in  others  it  is 
pathetic,  —  everywhere  it  ia  simple,  with  a  pleasant  flow  of  rhythm,  and 
closely  true  to  nature.  It  is  followed  by  '  The  Dog  Guard,'  a  poem  which 
leaves  an  impression  on  the  mind  like  Coleridge's  'Ancient  Mariner '—  a  sub 
ject  which,  but  for  great  skill  in  the  treatment,  would  have  been  repulsive. 
As  it  stands  in  the  book  it  shows  eminent  descriptive  power,  and  a  certain 
freedom  and  daring  that  lifts  it  far  above  the  commonplace.  Interspersed 
aiuoug  the  longer  poems.are  short  verses,  which  must  answer  the  same  pur 
pose  in  the  book  as  the  organist's  interludes,  helping  out  the  value  of  that 
which  precedes,  and  that  which  follows.  Some  of  these  are  more  than 
excellent.  They  stand  out  as  a  peculiar  feature  of  the  book,  adding  to  its 
completeness,  as  they  will  add  to  the  poet's  reputation.  Preceding  '  The 
Dog  Guard  '  we  have  the  following,  which  perhaps  is  as  characteristic  as 
any  of  the  preludes.  It  will  be  seen  that  the  burden  of  this,  as  indeed  of 
the  whole  book,  is  Western  Australia:  — 

" '  Nation  of  Sun  and  Sin, 

Thy  flowers  and  crimes  are  red, 
And  thy  heart  is  sore  within 
While  the  glory  crowns  thy  head. 
Laud  of  the  gongless  birds, 
What  was  thi:ie  ancient  crime, 
Burning  through  lapse  of  time 
Like  a  prophet's  cursing  words? 

"  '  Aloes  and  myrrh  and  tears 
Mix  in  thy  bitter  wine: 
Drink,  while  the  cup  is  thine 
Drink,  for  the  draught  is  sign 
Of  thy  reign  in  coming  years.' 

"Mr.  O'Reilly  has  done  his  work  faithfully  and  well ;  he  has  given  us 
in  his  book  more  than  he  promised  us  in  the  preface;  aud  to-day,  with  his 
first  poetical  venture  before  th«  public,  he  has  added  another  to  the  laurels 
be  has  already  won  iu  other  fields." 


OPINIONS    OF    THE    PRESS. 


New  York  Tribune. 

"These  songs  are  the  most  stirring  tales  of  adventure  imaginable, 
chiefly  placed  In  Western  Australia,  a  penal  colony,  which  has  '  received 
from  the  mother  country  only  her  shame  and  her  crime."  The  book  is  the 
very  melodrama  of  poetry. . . .  Mr.  O'Reilly  is  a  man  whose  career  has 
been  full  of  wild  and  varied  adventure,  and  who  has  put  these  stirring 
scenes  —  all  of  which  he  saw,  and  part  of  which  he  was  —  into  verse  as 
spontaneous  and  unconventional  as  the  life  he  describes.  His  rhymed 
tales  are  as  exciting  as  ghost  stories,  and  we  have  been  reading  them  while 
the  early  sullen  November  night  closed  in,  with  something  the  same  feel 
ing,  the  queer  shiver, of  breathless  expectation,  with  which  we  used  to 
listen  to  legends  of  ghosts  and  goblins  by  our  grandmother's  firelight. 
Sot  that  the  supernatural  figures  too  largely  in  these  tales,  —  the  actors  in 
them  are  far  more  formidable  tlian  any  disembodied  spirits. .  .  . '  The  King 
of  the  Vasse '  is  a  wonderful  story,  in  which  a  dead  child  is  raised  to  life 
by  a  pagan  incantation  and  t'ae  touch  of  a  mystic  pearl  on  the  face,  — 
which  will  charm  the  lovers  of  the  miraculous.  '  The  Amber  Whale,' 
'The  Dog  Guard,"  and  'Haunted  by  Tigers,"  are  in  the  same  vein  with 
'  The  Monster  Diamond."  Thrilling  tales  all  of  them.  '  Chunder  Ali's 
Wife  '  is  a  charming  little  Oriental  love  story;  a  '  Legend  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin"  is  full  of  tenderness  and  grace,  for  Mr.  O'Reilly  is  both  a  Catholic 
and  an  Irishman;  and  I  cannot  close  my  extracts  from  his  book  more 
fittingly  than  with  his  heartfelt  lines  to  his  '  Native  Land ' :  — 

"  '  It  chanced  to  me  upon  a  time  to  sail 

Across  the  Southern  Ocean  to  and  fro; 
Aud,  lauding  at  fair  isles,  by  stream  and  vale 

Of  sensuous  blessing  did  we  ofttiiuej  go. 
And  months  of  dreamy  joys,  like  joys  in  sleep, 

Or  like  a  clear,  calm  stream  o'er  mossy  stone, 
Unnoted  passed  our  hearts  with  voiceless  sweep, 

And  left  us  yearning  still  for  lands,  unknown. 

"  '  And  when  we  found  one,  —  for  'tis  soon  to  find 

In  thousand-isied  Cathay  another  isle, — 
For  one  short  noon  its  treasures  filled  the  mind. 

And  then  again  we  yearned,  and  ceased  to  smile. 
And  so  it  was,  from  isle  to  isle  we  passed, 

Like  wanton  bees  or  boys  on  flowers  or  lips; 
And  when  that  all  was  tasted,  then  at  last 

We  thirsted  still  for  draughts  instead  of  slpa. 

"  '  I  learned  from  this  there  is  no  Southern  land 

Can  fill  with  love  the  hearts  of  Northern  men. 
Sick  minds  need  change;  but,  when  in  health  they  stand 
"Neath  foreign  skies  their  love  flies  home  again. 


.OPINIONS   OF   THE   PRESS. 


And  thus  with  me  it  was:  the  yearning  turned 

From  laden  airs  of  cinnamon  away, 
And  stretched  far  westward,  while  the  full  heart  bnrned 

With  love  for  Ireland,  looking  on  Cathay  1 

"  '  My  first  dear  love,  all  dearer  for  thy  grief! 

My  land  that  has  no  peer  in  all  the  sea 
For  verdure,  vale,  or  river,  flower  or  leaf,  — 

If  first  to  no  man  else,  thou'rt  first  to  me. 
New  loves  may  come  with  duties,  but  the  first 

Is  deepest  yet,  —  the  mother's  breath  and  smiles  : 
Like  that  kind  face  and  breast  where  I  was  nursed 

Is  my  poor  land,  the  Niobe  of  isles.'  " 

Mr.  B.  H.  Stoddard,  in  Scribner's  Monthly. 

" '  The  King  of  the  Vasse,'  the  opening  poem  in  Mr.  O'Reilly's  volume, 
is  a  remarkable  one;  and  if  the  legend  be  the  creation  of  Mr.  O'Reilly,  it 
places  him  high  among  the  few  really  imaginative  poets. .  . .  This,  iu  brief, 
is  the  outline  of  the  '  King  of  the  Vasse.'  In  it  we  could  point  out  many 
faulty  lines.  William  Morris  could  have  spun  off  the  verse  more  fluently, 
and  Longfellow  could  have  imparted  to  it  his  usual  grace.  Still,  we  are 
glad  that  it  is  not  from  them,  but  from  Mr.  O'Reilly,  that  we  receive 
it.  The  story  is  gimply  and  strongly  told,  and  is  imaginative  and 
pathetic.  It  is  certainly  the  most  poetic  poem  in  the  volume,  though  by 
no  means  the  most  striking  one.  '  The  Amber  Whale  '  is  more  character 
istic  of  Mr.  O'Reilly's  genius,  aa  'The  Dog  Guard'  and  '  The  Dukite 
Snake '  are  more  characteristic  of  the  region  in  which  he  is  most  at  home. 
....  He  is  as  good  a  balladist  as  Walter  Thornbury,  who  is  the 
only  other  living  poet  who  could  have  written  'The  Old  Dragoon's 
Story.' " 

Boston  Gazette. 

"  This  is  a  volume  of  admirable  poetry.  The  more  ambitions  poems  in 
the  book  are  in  narrative  form,  and  are  terse  and  spirited  in  style,  and  full 
of  dramatic  power  and  effect.  Mr.  O'Reilly  is  both  picturesque  and  epi 
grammatic,  and  writes  with  a  manly  straightforwardness  that  is  very 
attractive.  ...  Of  the  sickly  sentimentality  that  forms  the  groundwork 
of  so  much  of  our  modern  poetry,  not  a  trace  is  to  be  found  in  this  book. 
The  tone  throughout  is  healthy,  earnest,  and  pure.  There  is  also  an  inde 
pendence  and  originality  of  thought  and  treatment  that  are  very  striking, 
and  which  prove  not  the  least  attractive  features  of  the  book.  Some  of 
the  stories  are  conceived  with  unusual  power,  and  are  developed  with 
scarcely  less  effect  and  skill." 


8  OPINIONS   OF    THE    PRESS. 

Boston  Times. 

"  Some  reminiscences  of  bis  romantic  life,  the  poet  baa  woven  into  the 
Terser  that  till  tbU  volume.  Very  grim  reminiscences  they  are,  of  crime 
and  death  and  horrors  dire;  but  they  represent  faithfully,  we  have  no 
doubt,  the  society,  or  rather  savagery,  of  those  far  and  fearsome  lauds. 
Most  of  the  poems  are  stories,  sombre  in  substance,  but  told  with  a  vehe 
ment  vigor  that  is  singularly  harmonious  with  their  themes.  The  opeuing 
poem,  '  The  King  of  the  Vasse,'  preserves  a  strange  and  pathetic  legend, 
which  the  poet  has  wrought  into  a  powerful,  but  most  painful  story.  His 
imagination  revels  in  pictures  of  weird  desolation  and  the  repulsive  and 
appalling  prodigies  of  animal  and  vegetable  life  in  the  tropic  world;  and 
the  effect  of  these  presented  in  quick  succession,  and  varied  only  by 
episodes  of  human  sin  or  suffering,  is  positively  depressing.  Such  passages 
as  this  abound  in  the  poem:  — 

"  '  In  that  strange  country's  heart,  whence  comes  the  breath 
Of  hot  disease  and  pestilential  death, 
Lie  leagues  of  wooded  swamp,  that  from  the  bills 
Seem  stretching  mea.lows;  but  the  flood  that  fills 
These  valley  basins  has  the  hue  of  ink 
And  disniitl  doorways  open  on  the  brink, 
Beneath  the  gnarled  arms  of  trees  that  grow 
All  leafless  to  the  top,  from  roots  below 
The  Lethe  flood;  and  he  who  enters  there 
Beneath  this  screen  sees  rising,  ghastly  bare, 
Like  mammoth  bones  within  a  charnel  dark, 
The  white  and  ragged  stems  of  paper-bark, 
That  drip  down  moisture  with  a  ceaseless  drip, — 
With  lines  that  run  like  cordage  of  a  ship; 
For  myriad  creepers  struggle  to  the  light, 
And  twine  and  meet  o'erhead  in  murderous  fight 
For  life  and  sunshine.  .  .  . 

"  <  Between  the  water  and  the  matted  screen, 
The  bald-head  vultures,  two  and  two,  are  seen 
In  dismal  grandeur,  with  revolting  face 
Of  foul  grotesque,  like  spirits  of  the  place; 
And  now  and  then  a  spear-shaped  wave  goes  by, 
Its  apex  glittering  with  an  evil  eye 
That  sets  above  its  enemy  and  prey 
As  from  the  wave  in  treacherous,  slimy  way 
The  black  snake  winds,  and  strikes  the  bestial  bird, 
Whose  shriek-like  wailing  on  the  hills  is  heard.' 

"The  'Dog  Guard'  is  a  tale  of  horrors.  'The  Amber  Whale"  and 
'Haunted  by  Tigers'  are  founded  on  whaling  incidents,  and  the  latter, 
especially,  is  eloquent  with  the  woe  of  tragedy.  There  are  a  few  poems  in 
the  volume  written  in  a  lighter  mood.  'Uncle  Ned's  Tale'  Is  a  very 
spirited  tale  of  battle.  '  The  Fishermen  of  Wexford '  is  one  of  the  best 
pieces  in  the  collection  —  almost  severe  in  its  simple  realism,  but  tenderly 


OPINIONS    OF    THE    PRESS. 


patlietic.  "We  have  rarely  seen  a  first  volume  of  poems  so  rich  In  promise 
as  is  this.  It  is  singularly  free  from  the  faults  of  most  early  poems,  and 
exhibits  a  maturity  of  thought  and  a  sober  strength  of  style  that  would  do 
credit  to  any  of  our  older  poets." 

Boston  Commercial  Bulletin. 

"  His  descriptive  powers  are  remarkably  strong  and  vivid,  and  his  imag 
ination  powerful  and  vigorous.  Yet  it  ia  evident  from  a  glance  at  the 
minor  poems  of  '  Goln,'  and  my  '  Mother's  Memory,'  that  the  author  has 
an  imagination  that  will  not  desert  him  on  brighter  and  more  graceful 
nights  of  fancy.  Altogether  the  volume  is  one  of  much  more  than  ordi 
nary  originality  and  excellence." 

Worcester  Palladium. 

"  He  shows  originality  and  good  descriptive  power,  and  he  treats  his 
subjects  con  amore. . .  .  The  author  had  the  very  best  reason  in  the  world 
for  writiug  this  collection,  and  a  second  volume  will  be  awaited  with  rea 
son  ;  for  strong  points  are  displayed,  and  a  person  who  writes  because  his 
heart  wills  it,  sooner  or  later  wins  the  heart  of  the  public." 

Bangor  Whig. 

"  There  is  no  one  of  the  poems  the  book  contains  that  has  not  running 
through  it  a  sort  of  realism  that  at  once  takes  possession  of  the  reader's 
mind,  and  he  looks  upon  it,  as  it  were,  as  an  actual  event." 

Mr.  Newell  (Orpheus  C.  Kerr)  in  The  Catholic  Review. 

"Judged  in  all  the  phases  of  his  talent  presented  by  this  book,  Mr. 
O'Reilly  is  unquestionably  a  man  of  true  poetic  verve  and  temperament, 
with  too  much  reverence  for  the  noble  gift  of  song  to  sophisticate  it  with 
mawkish  affectations  or  conceited  verbal  ingenuities.  No  obscure  line 
patches  his  page;  no  fantastic  mannerism  accentuates  his  style;  no  pretend- 
edly  metaphysical  abstraction  egotizes  what  he  thinks  worthy  of  gift  to 
mankind." 

Utica  Herald. 

"  In  the  leading  poem  of  Mr.  O'Reilly's  collection,  entitled  '  The  King  of 
the  Vasse,'  there  are  novelties  of  scene  and  legend  which  alone  claim  the 
attention.  .  .  .  The  poeui  is  in  many  respects  a  wonderful  one,  and  contains 
many  subtleties  of  thought  and  expression,  which  it  ia  impossible  to 
reproduce  in  scanty  extract." 


IO  OPINIONS    OF    THE    PRESS. 


Literary  World,  Boston. 

..."  Mr.  O'Reilly  unquestionably  possesses  poetical  talent  of  a  high  and 
rare  order.  He  excels  iu  dramatic  narrative,  to  which  his  natural  intensity 
of  feeling  lends  a  peculiar  force.  His  verse  is  sometimes  careless,  and 
often  lacks  finish;  but  writers  are  few,  nowadays,  who  have  a  better  capi 
tal  in  heart  or  band  for  successful  poetical  work  than  that  which  is 
evidenced  in  this  volume." 

New  Tork  Independent. 

"The  first  and  longest  poem  in  this  book,  'The  King  of  the  Vasse," 
introduces  us  into  a  new  country,  and  proves  that  the  author's  dreary 
Australian  experipnces  were  a  gain  to  literature.  ..."  The  Dog  Guard  ' 
and  '  The  Amber  Whale '  are  even  better,  the  first  being  an  addition  of 
real  value  to  our  literature.  Throughout  the  lesser  poems  which  compose 
the  remainder  of  the  volume,  there  is  such  an  evenness  of  excellence  as 
to  give  good  proof  that  the  author  need  not  confine  himself  to  narrative 
poetry  in  order  to  claim  an  honorable  place  in  our  literature." 

Chicago  Times. 

"  This  book  is  a  striking  instance  that '  you  find  poetry  nowhere  unless 
yon  bring  some  with  you.'  The  thousands  of  despairing  wretches  who 
have  toiled  in  the  chain-gangs  as  Mr.  O'Reilly  did,  saw  no  poems  in  the 
soil  which  teemed  to  give  them  back  the  impress  only  of  the  British 
arrow  cut  on  the  sole  of  their  convict  shoes.  But  the  radiant  imagination 
and  tender  heart  of  the  patriot  felon  found  poetry  on  every  side  of  him. 
and  in  hii  hands  the  driest  stick  becomes  an  Aaron's  rod,  and  buds 
and  blossoms.  The  most  delightful  portion  of  the  book  is  its  Australian 
legends.  These  reveal  extraordinary  dramatic  power,  and  their  rhythmi 
cal  construction  is  perfect.  Unique  and  incomparable,  they  will  keep  a  per 
manent  place  in  literature,  and  the  romance  of  their  origin  and  authorship 
will  scarcely  add  anything  to  their  beauty  and  completeness  as  poems. .  .  . 
'Modern  poeU  put  a  great  deal  of  water  in  their  ink,'  Bays  Goethe. 
O'Reilly's  ink  contains  just  water  enough  to  keep  the  fluid  from  becoming 
thick.  It  flows  like  a  limpid  stream,  flecked  with  clouds  and  sunlight,  and 
here  and  there  tossing  with  so  much  force  into  fissures  of  Australian  rocks 
as  to  send  up  glittering,  snowy  showers  of  spray.  O'Reilly  is  undoubtedly 
destined  to  reach  a  high  place  as  an  English  poet.  He  is  now  a  very 
young  man." 

Christian  Era. 

"As  a  poet,  his  writings  have  called  forth  admiration,  and  as  an  editor, 
he  is  worthy  of  great  praise." 


OPINIONS    OF    THE   PRESS.  II 

Mr.  E.  P.  IVTiipple,  in  the  Boston  Globe. 

"  The  Boston  editors  can  boast  of  having  a  poet  in  their  ranks,  and  they 
should  naturally  cherish  him.  .  .  .  More  than  half  his  volume  is  devoted 
to  what  he  taw,  felt,  collected,  and  imagined  daring  a  forced  sojourn  in 
Australia.  The  remaining  portion  consists  of  occasional  poems,  very 
tender,  fanciful,  earnest,  individual,  and  manly,  claiming  nothing  which 
they  do  not  win  by  their  own  inherent  force,  grace,  melody,  and  'sweet 
reasonableness,'  or  it  may  be  at  times  their  passionate  unreasonableness. 
Nobody  can  read  the  volume  without  being  drawn  to  its  author.  He  is  so 
thoroughly  honest  and  sincere  that  he  insists  that  his  imaginations  are  but 
memories." 

New  York  Evening  Mail. 

"  Most  of  the  songs  are  stories  of  the  bosh  or  of  the  sea,  and,  strangely,  the 
subjects  are  almost  without  exception,  illustrations  of  the  awful  surety  of 
the  punishment  that  lays  in  wait  for  the  sin  of  him  whom  men  harm  not 
— the  key  of  Coleridge's  '  Ancient  Mariner.'  It  is  almost  the  old  Greek 
Fate  that  stalks  through  these  talcs  of  outlawry  and  wrong,  and  if  they  be 
indeed  the  legends  of  a  convict  land,  they  are  themselves  :i  strange  showing 
of  how  crime  haunts  and  hunts  the  soul.  .  .  .  Mr.  O'Reilly  has  the  natural 
gift  of  telling  a  story  capitally,  and  all  these  tales  in  verse  are  interesting 
as  well  as  powerful.  He  has  other  qualifications  also  as  a  poet;  his  Aus 
tralian  landscapes  are  drawn  with  fine  artistic  skill,  and  testify  to  their 
own  truth,  and  about  some  of  his  pictures  their  is  a  weirdness  that  touches 
on  the  supernatural." 

Boston  Post. 

"  Of  the  author's  genius  in  poetry  the  public  are  so  well  aware,  through 
his  fugitive  pieces,  that  no  commendation  is  necessary.  His  style  is  vigor 
ous  and  manly,  and  combines  a  delicacy  of  sentiment  with  clearness  of 
thought  and  vivacity  of  imagery.  Most  of  these  poems  have  a  peculiar 
interest,  from  the  fact  that  they  are  of  a  narrative  form, '  relics  of  an  un 
known  sphere,'  of  the  writer's  personal  experience  and  adventure  in 
Australia.  They  are  uneven  in  merit,  but  by  far  the  greater  number  have 
already  taken  a  permanent  place  among  the  living  poems  of  the  day." 

Daribury  News. 

"  His  poems,  aside  from  their  intrinsic  merit  and  romantic  interest,  are 
worth  clo.se  study,  as  examples  of  the  effects  produced  upon  the  mind  of  a 
prisoner  by  the  wild  luxuriance  and  fantastic  forms  which  nature  assumes 
in  Australia." 


12  OPINIONS  OF   THE   PRESS. 


New  York  Tablet. 

"The  'Amber  Whale,'  'Dog  Guard,'  and  'Monster  Diamond,'  are 
among  the  best  known  of  his  longer  poems,  and  they  have  already  taken 
their  place  amongst  the  best  narrative  poems  of  the  age.  .  .  .  We  hail 
with  very  great  pleasure  this  first  collection  of  Mr.  O'Reilly's  poems, 
which  we  hope  will  meet  with  the  kindly  welcome  it  deserves  from  all 
lovers  of  ballad  poetry." 

Cincinnati  Times. 

"  Amid  the  frantic  strivings  of  modern  poets  to  obtain  a  reputation  for 
originality  by  wild  inouthings,  odd.  strange,  and  revolting  conceits,  by  soar 
ing  toward  the  empyrian,  and  diving  into  the  infinite,  by  a  false  mysticism 
and  luxuriance  of  verbiage,  covering  a  poverty  of  ideas,  it  is  refreshing  to 
find  one  poet  who  is  content  to  be  original  within  the  domain  of  common 
sense;  who  courts  the  muses,  not  with  the  freedom  of  a  literary  libertine, 
but  modestly,  yet  with  true  poetic  ardor.  ...  In  view  of  all  this  we  take 
it  as  a  most  encouraging  thing  that  such  a  book  of  poetry  as '  Songs  from  the 
Southern  Seas '  is  published,  and  still  more  encouraging  its  evident  ap 
proval  by  critics  and  acceptableness  to  the  public.  In  some  of  the  poems, 
notably  in  'The  King  of  the  Vasse,'  there  are  traces  of  the  influence  of 
Win.  Morris,  and  Mr.  O'Reilly  could  not  be  influenced  from  a  sweeter, 
purer  source;  in  narrative  passnges  there  is  evidence  of  a  study  of  Scott, 
and  the  poet  could  not  study  in  this  department  a  better  model;  in  the 
war  lyrics  there  is  an  evident  following  of  the  style  of  Macaulay,  and  a 
singer  of  more  stirring  battle-songs  never  lived;  but  throughout  the  book 
there  is  hardly  a  trace  of  Swinburne  or  the  Swinburnian  school.  The 
poems  are  strong,  earnest,  and  the  offspring  of  genuine  emotion.  .  .  .  Mr. 
O'Reilly's  war  lyrics,  under  the  title  of '  Uncle  Ned's  Tales,'  are  the  most 
spirited  that  have  been  produced  for  a  long  time.  They  have  all  the  ring 
and  fire  of  Macaulay;  they  stir  one's  blood  like  the  neigh  of  a  war-horse  or 
the  blast  of  a  bugle." 

Hartford  Post. 

"  Some  of  the  short  poems  are  full  of  thoughtful  earnestness  and  the 
true  poet's  yearning  tenderness,  while  seldom  have  more  stirring  lines 
told  tales  of  war  than  those  of  '  Uncle  Ned's  Stories.'  " 

San  Francisco  Monitor. 

"  The  volume  now  before  ns  contains  '  The  King  of  the  Vasse," '  The 
Dog  Guard,' '  The  Amber  Whale,'  and  a  number  of  minor  pieces,  all  of 
which  are  marked  by  much  dramatic  power  and  beauty  of  imagery,  show 
ing  him  to  be  a  poet  iu  the  truest  sense  of  the  word." 


OPINIONS    OF    THE    PRESS.  13 


Irish  American. 

"  Originality,  whether  of  ideas,  construction,  or  of  subjects,  Is  the  prin 
cipal  something  invariable  sought  for,  and  but  seldom  found,  in  the  gen 
eration  of  '  poets'  with  which  this  era  of  ours  is  so  lavishly  supplied.  In 
the  volume  before  us,  however,  this  essential  poetic  quality  is  so  strikingly 
manifest,  that,  in  recognition  of  it,  we  must  assign  Mr.  O'Reilly  a  very 
high  place  among  the  few  who,  in  our  day,  write  readable  and  meritorious 
verse.  But  this  is  not  the  only  feature  in  Mr.  O'Reilly's  muse  worthy  of 
remark;  the  vigor  of  his  lines,  the  aptness  of  his  similes,  the  effectiveness 
of  his  climaxes,  —  all  testify  to  the  existence  in  the  author  of  that  true 
poetic  disposition,  which  is  ever  inborn,  and  never  acquired.  To  those 
who  may  be  sceptical  of  our  judgment,  we  say,  read  the  '  Songs  from 
the  Southern  Seas,'  and  realize  the  pleasure  they  are  calculated  to  afford 
even  the  most  critical." 

Detroit  Post. 

"They  are  evidently  not  fictions,  but  faithful  transcripts  of  his  own 
feelings;  the  imagery  is  not  stolen  or  borrowed,  but  original." 

Hartford  Courant. 

"The  volume  not  only  contains  a  great  deal  of  vigorous  and  interesting 
poetry,  but  it  gives  excellent  promise  for  the  future." 

Albany  Journal. 

"  For  wild  adventure  and  thrilling  experience  they  will  compare  with  the 
most  weird  and  exciting  legends." 

Dublin  Nation. 

"The  narratives  themselves  are  interesting;  they  have  usually  a  tragic 
turn,  and  are  worked  out  with  no  small  degree  of  skill.  .  .  .  Some  of  the 
word-pictures  of  Australian  scenery  are  exceedingly  realistic  and  vivid. 
.  .  .  Some  of  the  minor  poems  in  this  book  afford  much  better  indications 
of  the  poetic  capacities  of  tlie  author;  and  the  effect  of  the  entire  volume 
is  to  lead  us  to  believe  that  he  ha«*  within  him  powers  which  will  enable 
him  to  rise  far  above  tUe  mark  to  which  he  has  here  attained." 

Lawrence  American. 

"  There  is  a  vein  of  fire  and  earnestness,  a  glow  of  enthusiasm,  that  can 
not  but  attract  to  the  writer,  and  win  no  slight  admiration  for  hia  genius; 
and  hia  countrymen  will  especially  be  pleased  with  the  graceful  volume." 


14  OPINIONS    OF   THE   PRESS. 


Catholic  Record  of  Philadelphia. 

"  It  has  seldom  been  our  good  fortune  to  discover  a  volume  of  verses  in 
which  the  realistic  and  poetic  elements  were  so  powerfully  and  ;tbly  com 
bined.  Mr.  O'Reilly  selects  his  themes  from  among  scenes  arid  characters 
which  would  naturally  be  supposed  to  be  the  least  congenial  to  the  muse 
of  song,  for  Erato  is  not  usually  considered  at  home  among  Nantncket  tars 
on  New  Bedford  whaling-ships,  in  Australian  penal  colonies,  or  the  after- 
dark  pranks  of  shameless  youngsters.  The  luxurious  arcades  and  flower 
ing  groves  of  the  tropics  may,  indeed,  be  for  a  time  her  abode,  and  she 
may  not  disdain  to  occasionally  bathe  in  the  sparkling  waters  of  sonny 
Southern  seas,  but  we  will  stake  our  character  for  penetration  on  the  as 
sertion  that  Mr.  O'Reilly  is  a  handsome  Irishman  from  the  vicinity  of  Blar 
ney  Castle,  for  he  has  so  completely  fascinated  her  that  she  follows  him 
with  her  most  favoring  smiles  wherever  or  whenever  be  bids  her  presence. 
She  is  beside  him  in  the  murderer's  secluded  shelter ;  she  rides  with  him  on  the 
storm-winds  that  whistle  around  the  Horn;  shesits  beside  him  in  the  agoniz 
ing  cruise  when  the  wounded  amber  whale  drags  h  is  boat  through  the  mighty 
Southern  spray;  she  perches  on  an  oil  barrel  on  New  Bedford's  wharves, 
or  peeps  with  him  through  the  windows  of  a  New-England  meeting-house. 
Wherever  he  lists,  she  lets  him  sing,  — aing  the  tenderest  of  songs,  in  the 
manliest  of  tones." 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A      000251911    4 


